


punch-drunk, love-drunk

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Anger, Fist Fights, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Hogwarts, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Quidditch, Rivalry, Rutting, Slow Burn, see nobody asked for this and yet here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: Oliver Wood, natural born leader in red Gryffindor robes, couldn't be anything but an Alpha and Marcus knows that.His hormones, however, do not.(In which they both have family issues and communication issues and just a lot of issues in general.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> nobody asked for this but is it really a ship until there's an a/b/o fic 
> 
> a/b/o dynamics and traits are kind of a jumble of different things in this fic, but yknow - we're not here for accuracy, we're here to see quidditch boys falls in love

Oliver Wood stares at him with big, big brown eyes. When he thrusts his hand out, Marcus jumps back. Wood’s jaw tightens, just minutely, just enough for Marcus to be on edge.

“We should be friends,” the boy from next door says, as if that's how friendships are made, just by asking. “Do you like flying?”

Marcus isn’t sure about being friends – Oliver is all rough and tumble, and the house elves don’t like him getting dirty, because his mother stares down her upturned nose at them all when that happens – but Marcus doesn’t have friends, not really, and he _wants_ one.

“Do you like Quidditch?” Oliver asks instead, when Marcus doesn’t respond immediately.

“Yeah.”

The grin that spreads across Oliver’s face is gap toothed and wide, a pleasant scent rolling off from him that tells Marcus that his new friend is pleased. “Perfect. I’ll be captain, you can play chaser – come join me.”

Marcus takes the quaffle Oliver thrusts out with tentative hands. Oliver pats him on the shoulder, as if they’ve already had years of camaraderie. It feels nice, the warm touch. He wonders if Oliver’s going to be an Alpha, when he presents.

Oliver walks importantly out, out, out into the field. Marcus squints his eyes – he could see it.

***

Marcus watches from his compartment as Oliver waves goodbye to his parents, running hurriedly to the train as steam covers the platform. Within minutes, Wood’s waded his way through the crowd and turned up, eager smile already on his lips.

“Finally,” Oliver puffs, as Marcus gestures to the seat next to him. Oliver sprawls out, collapses against the leather and turns bright eyes towards Marcus. “Merlin, I’m excited to start.”

“S’not that fun,” Marcus grumbles, “Class sucks. And they don’t let first years on the team.”

He picks at the stray thread coming from the seats, watches and snorts as Oliver’s shoulders fall.

“Even if I’m good?” Oliver sighs.

“Even then.”

Before Oliver can respond, a group of older Slytherins that Marcus recognizes as the Quidditch team open the compartment door. The tallest one snickers.

“Flint, right? Get your arse out of here if you want a shot at the team this year, and take your little friend with you.”

Marcus shoots back a glare he’s seen his father give a million times. “Got here first. Sod off.”

His words amuse his older housemates more than anything. Oliver watches with wary eyes, hands balled up into fists, anxiety rolling off him in waves. Hamish, the big pale brute, crosses his arms, and stares down at Marcus and Oliver before smirking.

“Territorial, huh? Who knows, Flint, maybe you’ll be an Alpha after all.”

Marcus rolls his eyes – everyone knows the Flint line carries Alphas down through their males, from father to son, just like the Weasleys have their Alphas in their daughters, and the Malfoys are abundantly Betas. It’s been that way for ages. Hamish is just fucking with him at this point, but Oliver bristles – as if the insinuation that Marcus would be anything but an Alpha is an insult to him as well.

The older boys meander off, bored, no doubt, with Marcus not standing down. Only one of the Slytherins on the team is an Alpha, but Marcus thinks Hamish probably has better things to do.

It makes Marcus feel a little sick, knowing that Hamish is the type of Alpha to flash red eyes to get what he wants. He’s seen his father do it – to his mother, to the elves (as if they would’ve thought to disobey anyways), to the people at the ministry who dared to disagree.

Oliver’s cheeks are red, but he turns to Marcus with a resigned smile. “Well – guess that’ll be you in a couple years.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow, not knowing whether to feel insulted.

“I mean,” Oliver laughs, “Captain. Slytherin. Alpha. You’re good, Flint. You’re going to make it this year.”

Marcus chuckles a little, lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “Rich coming from you, Wood.”

He thinks it’ll be nice, to have a friend in the future who gets what being an Alpha is like. They can keep each other in check.

Marcus hopes, at least, as he watches Oliver settle into the Gryffindor table across the hall. Oliver’s already grinning and talking rapidly with his older housemates, social butterfly that he is, eager to attain his ground and find his bearings.

He _hopes_ they can still be friends.

***

Marcus presents on a brisk November evening during his sixth year.

He’d felt it creeping up his spine, the impulse, and it made sense. Was about time, his father had said in the responding letter, seeing as most Flints present fairly early on, the trace strong in their bloodline. Marcus is just relieved that he doesn’t have to deal with the disappointment, the years and years of, no doubt, Dark magic they’ve worked into the family line falling at his feet.

Higgs almost doubles over laughing when he comes back to their dorm that night, Marcus having shredded the sheets mid rut, but he retreats - albeit with a smirk - when Marcus throws whatever’s in reach at Terence’s head.

“Have fun with your hand,” Terence calls, before Marcus magics the door shut. Fucking Betas. They’ve got it the best, Marcus fumes, no heat or rut to deal with.

His Alpha mark is appearing angrily at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and when he claps a hand over it, Marcus hisses, sensation both painful and arousing. The whole house, and then school, will know his new status shortly, not that any of them are going to be surprised.

His mark will make that evident enough. It annoys him, how much everyone cares about everyone else’s status.

It’s probably two hours into his rut when Marcus lets his guard down, lets his mind wander, and Oliver’s face swims into view. His scent, suddenly so sweet in Marcus’ memory, make his hands tremble. When his canines drop, Marcus buries his face into his pillow, and comes hard at the image of Oliver, blinking up at him, hair mussed against white sheets.

A sickening, unpleasant feeling curls up in the pit of his stomach. He’s fucked. He’s – Marcus shoves the sheets away, dread crawling up his throat.

He’s so goddamn fucked. Gone and gotten attached to a boy who’s a Gryffindor, who no doubt is going to be presenting as Alpha soon, who he argues constantly with during the school year, who – who would probably gasp against his lips in that little surprised way, would be so pliant underneath him, skin hot and soft to the touch.

The itch of arousal simmers underneath his skin again, and Marcus succumbs, lets his fantasies run wild as his rut continues late into the night.

***

He and Oliver are still friends, Marcus supposes, during the summers, when it’s just them out between the grove of trees between their two estates. The Woods invite Marcus over for dinner sometimes, a habit from years past, and Mrs. Wood is particularly good at smoothing over whatever quarrel and predicament Oliver and Marcus have stumbled upon throughout the school year.

Oliver’s forgiving. Marcus is grateful.

His mark still annoys him – unused to the way it stings whenever he gets angry, the way red heat wells up in his chest whenever he feels threatened by another’s presence. But it’s all part of being an Alpha, his father had said with a tinge of pride, and Marcus had been so unused to that extra attention that he’d thought about it for days afterwards.

The day after he’d presented, Oliver had met his eyes in the hallway, and nodded curtly, an acknowledgment. Some sort of respect. Marcus wondered why it made him uncomfortable, Oliver’s recognition, even though they’ve both known it for years.

But now he’s antsy – Marcus can feel it in the way Oliver’s eyes rove over his mark when he thinks Marcus isn’t looking. He asks Marcus questions, sometimes, about presenting - the days before, what it felt like, and none of Marcus’ answers seem satisfactory.

“But what was it like?” Oliver presses again one day while they’re practicing catches.

“Painful,” is the first thing that pops out of Marcus’ mouth, and it was, but not for the reason that Oliver probably thinks.

Oliver’s mouth thins. He brushes off the grass from his knees and straddles his broom, soaring off before Marcus can say anything else.

Marcus watches his back turn into a small dot into the sky, and doesn’t try to follow.

Oliver’s impatient, he knows. It’s probably the competitive edge that’s flaring up between them – Oliver had been just as jittery when Marcus had been named captain a year before him. It’s not eased by Oliver’s father, constantly preceding conversations with _once you present_ and _when you’re an Alpha_.

But he knows Oliver. Marcus wouldn’t doubt it. Instead, Marcus tears his eyes away from the line of Oliver’s neck, the curve of his cheekbones, swallows his yearning, and stamps down the urge to pull Oliver close and scent him, present himself as the possibility of _mate_. It’s a fantasy, a fever dream, something that’s going to get snatched away soon. So if Marcus secretly hopes for one more day in which Oliver doesn’t present, well.

The end of June passes with Oliver’s sixteenth birthday, and the day after, Marcus is left waiting out in the field, broomstick at his feet. The summer sun beats hot against the back of his neck, and he waits long enough to feel individual beads of sweat run down from his forehead. Oliver’s late – he supposes Oliver could’ve overslept, but there isn’t any truth in that. Wood doesn’t oversleep. He barely shows up anything but five minutes early.

Especially for Quidditch. Even when he’s pissed at Marcus, Oliver is still there, glaring at his own broom as he polishes it.

Marcus hovers lazily, feet skimming the grass. He waits an hour before giving up, walking off the Wood estate and feeling oddly disappointed.

There’s a pull at the base of his spine, to turn back, but he ignores it.

***

Wood’s an Omega. Wood’s a fucking Omega, and Marcus feels horrible for being so goddamn selfishly happy.

The day Oliver hadn’t shown up, he’d been in his first heat, or so Mrs. Wood graciously explains to him. But that hadn’t explained the way Oliver had darted away when he’d seen Marcus hovering above the tree tops, didn’t explain why after a five day long first heat (Marcus’ chest had ached with sympathy), Oliver had avoided him for two more weeks.

It’s nearing late July when they finally return to the field, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. Oliver brings up the topic before Marcus can even determine whether he _should._

“Well, fuck,” Oliver laughs, voice bitter, “Guess that’s all the Quidditch I’m going to have, then.”

Marcus stares him down. “Why?”

The grimace that twists Oliver’s lips is so ugly that Marcus doesn’t recognize him for a split second. “Don’t play fucking dumb, Flint. The league doesn’t take Omegas.”

“That’s not true,” Marcus argues, even though he knows only three Omegas have played professional, and all seekers at that. He eyes the small mark under Oliver’s ear, the newly formed indication of Wood’s Omega status. And then his eyes go to the tense line of Oliver’s back.

Oliver kicks at a clod of dirt. “Why bother, Flint? Doesn’t matter to you.”

Before Marcus can somehow voice that it matters because it matters to _Oliver,_ Wood’s thrown down his broom and stalked back into his house. When he reappears, he’s holding four bottles of Firewhiskey and no glasses.

“Want one?”

Everything in Oliver screams agitation – Marcus wouldn’t need the sharp scent stinging his nose to know that. He nods, and watches as Oliver hexes off the top.

They wind up backs pressed against a large oak tree, grass cool underneath their palms. Marcus watches Oliver drain his second bottle of Firewhiskey with a gaze pinpointed on nothing, and has the urge to knock the drink away.

He doesn’t know what to say. Not uncommon, ever, but – he doesn’t know how to voice any words of comfort without falling susceptible to the greediness building in his chest, the possibility now swung wide open.

“I think I’ve known,” Oliver says, after a long stretch of silence, “For a while. Just didn’t – everyone expected me not to be.”

Marcus swallows. “There’s nothing wrong with—”

“Being an Omega, yeah, I know. I know, it’s just – Quidditch.”

Marcus looks him straight in the eye. Oliver holds it for a moment, before looking down at his hands, tearing into uprooted grass.

“S’not impossible.”

Oliver swallows. “Yeah, I just. Yeah.”

***

By the end of August, Oliver seems to take it in stride. His practices grow more frequent, Marcus always tagging along, out of both keeping up and his rising urge to stay close to Wood. Oftentimes they don’t talk, Marcus doodling out his own plays while Oliver scribbles furiously beside him, notebook dog-eared and covered in ink stains.

Oliver is intoxicating, in the summer. Normally - and yes, Marcus has admitted it to himself now – he’s just competitive enough, just aggravating enough during the school year that Marcus can ignore the swirling need in his chest, can ignore the length of Wood’s lashes, brushing against his skin with every blink. They’re far enough apart during classes and meals that Marcus doesn’t succumb to the urge to stride over, plant himself behind Oliver, and nuzzle his face into the crook of Oliver’s neck.

“Stop looking at me,” Oliver grumbles, still intently glaring at his notebook.

“I’m not,” Marcus lies, even though he’d just been counting the freckles on Oliver’s nose.

It’s such a childish thing to do, but the Alpha part of him thinks it’s of prime importance. Thinks _mate_ , thinks _you need to prove you know him best._

Oliver during the summer is sweaty shirts and floppy hair, skin sun bronzed after the first burn, fingers always stained with broom polish. Marcus dreams more about the dusty scent of a broom shed than the sweet vanilla scent of Omegas, when he thinks about Oliver.

Oliver shuts his notes with a sharp move of his hand. “You’re still looking.”

Marcus doesn’t respond, just follows Oliver from where they’d been sitting to the edge of the small brook that splits their properties.

“No flying today?” he asks, as Oliver rolls up the frayed bottom of his jeans to wade into the cool water. Their brooms lay momentarily discarded by their feet.

“It’s hot,” Oliver groans, voice slightly drowned out by the sound of running water, “Later.”

He can feel his pulse pick up at the sight of an Omega - _his_ Omega, his brain hisses - splashing around in the water to cool off. It’s the most carefree Oliver’s looked in ages, the most relaxed, and Marcus wants to keep that look on his face as long as possible.

Oliver hasn't been the same, really, since his first heat.

Marcus dips his hand in the water, sends a large splash towards Oliver, water hitting him right in the chest. Oliver retaliates before Marcus can react, and then he’s sopping wet from the waist down.

“Motherfucker,” Marcus calls, as Oliver cheers, proud of himself.

“You started it,” Wood calls over his shoulder, before dodging the second splash of water sent his way. The laugh that rings out amidst the trees is enough to make Marcus stop, drinking in the way Oliver’s eyes are squinted up while he smiles.

Oliver stills some little ways away, feet still in the stream. “The water’s nice – come join me.”

The outstretched hand that’s offered makes Marcus shy away.

“Nah,” he manages, “Don’t feel like it.”

He thinks if he gets even a centimeter closer to Oliver he’ll cave. Like wrapping paper, merely holding shape after the present has already been removed, and Oliver will flatten him without a second glance.

Marcus retreats farther back onto the grass, slumps down by where their brooms lie together. He doesn’t bank on Oliver following his lead this time, and clambering out of the stream, still barefoot.

Oliver settles by his side, just close enough so that Marcus can feel the dampness of Wood’s clothes, and see the droplets slipping down his neck.

“Has your father-” Marcus starts at Oliver’s sudden question, “Has your father mentioned anything?”

Marcus stares at him. “About?”

“You know,” Oliver prods, “Mates. You Flints always match up early, don’t you?”

Marcus picks at a twig. He supposes Oliver has a point – his parents had married young, had had him before they were twenty-three and it’s been this way for his grandparents, his great grandparents, and so on back. It’s half staking the territorial family claim, and half just the nature of all the Flint Alphas.

“He hasn’t.” Marcus answers after a while, picking at a scab on his knee.

“Probably will be.” Oliver says pointedly.

Marcus narrows his eyes, bristling and defensive because it feels like Wood’s trying to pick him apart. And he’s good at it – always has been. It’s too dangerous though, this time; splitting open Marcus’ soft underbelly would just make his ugly secret spill out bare.

“You worried?”

Marcus shrugs, uncomfortable. “Dunno. Yes. I dunno.”

Oliver stares off somewhere past his shoulder, jaw set and eyes hard. And Marcus – wants so fucking badly to smooth out the tenseness that’s creeped its way back into Oliver’s being. It’d be so easy, if they were mates, to release the palpable tension creeping up in between them. But all that’s happening is some shuffling of limbs, and an avoidance of gazes.

He presses his fingers against the loose dirt. “Are you?”

At Oliver’s questioning look, Marcus elaborates. “Worried. About mates – given…”

“My new status?” Oliver scoffs, then follows up with an agitated hand running through his already messy hair. “It’s whatever. Not like any Alphas are clamoring to go after an Omega like me.”

Marcus blinks. Oliver is lean muscle and strong hands and just plain tall, a lot of untraditional things for an Omega, but he’s far, far from undesirable. The younger years at Hogwarts all get a little giggly when Wood’s around as it is, Captain status and open nature a natural draw, and Marcus can’t find the connection between Oliver’s worry and his reality.

“Does anyone else know yet?” Marcus prods.

“No,” Oliver mumbles, “Just you.”

“Well – there’s your issue then.”

Oliver glares at his hands, mouth twisting tight again in a way that Marcus has never been able to read. “Maybe I don’t want anyone else to know.”

“You’re being a brat.” Marcus says coolly, because Wood is.

“Yeah, well.” The fight drains out of Oliver’s face a couple minutes after, and Marcus knows to leave well enough alone. Because yes, when he needles Wood at school it’s highly deliberate, but he does have some semblance of _tact_.

Except Oliver seems hell-bent on the topic of mates.

“What do you think,” Oliver eyes him, testing the boundaries, “You’d want in a mate?”

“Never thought about it.” Marcus lies automatically, hair on the back of his neck standing on end because this territory is too dangerous. No doubt his uncomfortableness is rolling off of him in waves, and they’re far too close for Oliver not to notice.

“Liar.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re lying,” Oliver calls him out, and leans back on his hands, one eyebrow raised, “And I’m trying to make myself more damn appealing to your lot because that’s apparently what my lot in life is, so why don’t you fucking help me out instead of being a dick?”

“You’re fine,” Marcus says.

Oliver’s laugh is hollow. “That’s great. A mediocre fine isn’t going to cut it, Flint.”

Marcus bites his tongue, curls his fingers around a fistful of grass, and tries to form a coherent answer. It’s pointless trying to make things sound nice, because he’s never been good at that, and he’s not good with words of comfort, either. Instead, he hopes being blunt will cut it.

“Wood,” Marcus bites out, “You’re attractive, alright? To Alphas. To _everyone_.”

Oliver stills his fidgeting, and the glance that he sends Marcus’ way from under the flop of his hair makes Marcus scared that he’s been a little too impartial. “You think I’m attractive?”

Marcus pastes on a flimsy sneer. “Objectively.”

The tiny quirk to Oliver’s lips tell him that Wood knows otherwise.

“Okay. You’re not too bad yourself,” Oliver says, “ _Objectively_.”

The heat that rises to Marcus’ cheeks no doubt is making him go pink, but the inner Alpha, of course, enjoys the praise. He feigns brushing the compliment off, because in truth it was more a mockery than anything else, but then Oliver’s shifting just a smidgen closer, and Marcus’ brain shorts out a little further.

Damn enticing Omegas and their damn enticing scents.

“I guess we’ll see, then,” Oliver says quietly, finally letting up, “You’ll look out for me, won’t you? Scare off any Alphas with bad intentions?”

“Piss off,” Marcus grumbles, “You can handle yourself.”

Oliver’s hum is toneless, and then there’s a very long silence in which Marcus can feel Oliver’s nerves rising to the surface, can almost hear the uptick in his pulse from their proximity, and it doesn’t make much sense, really, because he’d been the one on the hot seat. So why was Oliver –

“Did you ever,” Oliver blurts, and at his wide eyes and bitten lips, Marcus is suddenly reminded that Wood is the younger one, “When you found out – did you ever consider me?”

Shit.

Marcus flounders for a response, but in his inability to find the words is his answer. Does he confess? Does he admit that every damn rut, it’s Oliver swimming through his thoughts, it’s Oliver that he wants, that he still wants long after the hormones are gone?

Oliver stares at him, waiting. And if he lies, Oliver will know, anyways.

“Sure,” Marcus manages, trying to play it cool, “Yeah. I mean, logically – you like … Quidditch.”

Wood’s stare turns to confusion.

“I mean,” Marcus says stupidly, “I want my mate to like Quidditch.”

“…Oh.”

“Do I get to ask the same question?” Marcus asks, because he’s shit at emotions anyways, so he might as well blow the whole thing out of the water. Oliver’s cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, and Marcus can sense the embarrassment. He wonders how much of his own inner turmoil Oliver can pick up on as well.

Oliver shrugs half-heartedly. “Yeah – I’ve been meaning to bring it up. The answer is yes, but it’s stupid, so.”

Wood makes to get up in the span of time it takes Marcus to process, to realize that he _could have this_ , and Marcus just barely grabs Oliver’s arm in time to stop him.

“You thought about it?” Marcus raises an eyebrow, barely able to imagine.

Oliver turns a deeper shade of pink, shaking off Marcus’ hand.

“Fuck, Flint, do you want me to say it? I like you, okay? And I just – I wanted to know if the possibility was fucking absurd.”

“It’s not,” Marcus manages to say amidst the reeling of his head at Oliver’s confession, “Come here.”

He tugs Oliver back down, and is lucky enough that Wood follows, and then before the adrenaline can wear off, he leans forward and presses his mouth softly to the side of Oliver’s mouth. Oliver makes a small noise of surprise.

“Bad?” Marcus asks.

Oliver blinks. “No – good.”

“Good,” Marcus breathes, can’t even dare to believe that it’s happening, that Oliver is moving closer and looking at him in a way that he can barely decipher, “So – ”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because then Oliver’s leaning back in, and he’s far more on target. When their lips meet again, Marcus inhales sharply, and Oliver presses closer at that, fist curling into the collar of Marcus’ shirt. Marcus is shivering - from the cold of his drying clothes or the fact that he’s kissing _Oliver_ , he’s not sure. Before he can fully start to process everything, Oliver presses closer yet again, making a soft noise, hands rooting in Marcus’ hair. There’s the taste of fucking river water, and sweat, and Oliver smells like boy and salt and sweet Omega pheromone all at once and Marcus is overtaken by the urge to press him down and nuzzle his face into Oliver’s neck.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he drags Oliver back by the chin when they part, makes some low hungry noise in his chest and Oliver’s laughing, surprised, like a fucking idiot, but they’re kissing again, and nothing has ever felt as right as this.

Somehow, Wood’s wound up sitting in his lap, strong legs wrapped teasingly around, and Marcus is surprised they’re still upright. He’s got his hands curled possessively around Oliver’s waist. Oliver’s hands are still in his hair and Marcus keeps kissing him, doesn’t want to let up, doesn’t want to let this go, just in case it’s a fluke and he only gets this once.

It stretches on for what feels like hours, though in actuality it would probably be minutes. It’s fucking hot and fucking exhilarating, all at once. Oliver’s panting now, but before Marcus’ ego can inflate at the effect a couple of his kisses has had on the boy in his lap, Oliver shudders and whines, pressing his face into the nape of Marcus’ neck.

“Wood – Oliver, you alright?”

A soft shake of the head from Oliver, and Marcus is holding him up straight. Oliver’s pupils are blown, and he’s staring at Marcus with a glazed expression.

“Oliver,” Marcus says with a growing sense of dread, “Shit - your last heat. When was it?”

Oliver shakes his head again, makes a move as if to clamber off Marcus’ lap, but instead stumbles as he tries to move. And then Oliver’s body goes all pliant against Marcus’ chest, and the pheromones hit his nose. The sweet, sweet scent of arousal makes him dizzy, makes him want to bite at the scent glands right under Oliver’s ear and _mark_. To claim.

The urge is too much for Marcus to bear – there’s a pleasant burning spreading low in his stomach and as Oliver presses his body closer, Marcus buries his nose against the soft hairs at the nape of Oliver’s neck, drags his teeth across the flushed skin.

The loud noise Oliver makes snaps Marcus out of his haze.

“Wait – Wood, c’mon,” Marcus tries, as Oliver ruts against his hip, and he feels the hard line of Wood’s cock pressing through his trousers. His mouth dries. “Just – hold it together for a bit.”

Oliver merely responds with a soft moan, hands clutching at Marcus’ shoulders. He keeps writhing and clinging, and Marcus is hard now as well, body to attuned to what’s going on. How couldn’t he be? It’s every fever dream and fantasy curled up into one, in the entity that is Oliver, hot and pressed up against his body.

Fuck.

Oliver’s hands are wandering underneath his shirt now and that snaps Marcus back into action.

“Don’t – no, c’mon Wood, get up. Get up.”

Marcus manages to get his limbs working, manages to haul Oliver up by the shoulder and start frog marching him back to his house. He wants this, yes, but not like _this_. Not the first time, anyways.

It’s a difficult journey, and Marcus wavers more times than he should. Oliver’s always been slippery, on the pitch and off, and even in heat, he manages to unwind himself out from Marcus’ hands. Thankfully, instead of having to chase down a loose Omega, all that happens is Oliver’s attempts to nuzzle back into his arms. It’s more a practice in self-restraint than anything Marcus has ever had to do before – albeit, his lips are pink and swollen by the time he manages to get Oliver over the threshold of the Wood residence, and Oliver’s aren’t much better.

He sighs a thank you to Merlin that the house is empty.

It’s not easy when they finally manage to stumble into Oliver’s room, because the sudden enveloping of Oliver’s scent tips Marcus off-balance in his aroused state. His tripping lands both him and Oliver onto the bed.

Oliver’s shakily trying to divest himself of his own clothing and Marcus takes pity, knows that heats are always the worst within the first day. He wrestles Oliver free of his damp shirt, trying to ignore the way every brush of his hands against heated skin makes Oliver keen. It’s when his hands are fumbling with the waist of Oliver’s shorts that Marcus rears back, realizing that the pounding in his temple and the burst of heat at the base of his spine are overruling any reason.

Oliver drags him down before Marcus can move back, rubbing his face into Marcus’ neck where the mark of being an Alpha is prominent, and Marcus hisses. Everything has him dizzy – the scent of Oliver’s arousal, the skin to skin contact, the unsteady way Oliver’s hips are rolling against his and the horrifying pleasure from that.

“Oliver,” Marcus groans, pinning Wood down from rubbing up against him. “Just – hold on.”

Oliver peers up at him with glazed over eyes, submissive in his intentions, neck bared. Marcus feels nauseous at the thought of what is expected to happen at this point. This shouldn’t be – well, if they’re going to be anything, this shouldn’t be the first time.

He manages to untangle himself from Oliver’s limbs, adamantly ignoring the renewed sounds Oliver makes once he moves out of touchable range. Marcus blocks out the thought that the only reason Oliver hasn’t tackled him down is because the heat has taken over most of his strength.

“Marcus,” Oliver calls, peering out of the covers at him, and Marcus is hit with the overwhelming need to get back in the bed, cover Oliver’s body, and lose himself in the heady scent of Oliver’s heat.

A low whimper rises from the now-cocoon of blankets. “Please.”

Marcus stumbles out of the room before he can do anything rash, anything that’ll set his whole world teetering off the edge. It’s only when he’s shut the door with a harsh click behind him that he realizes his canines are poking into his bottom lip, and that his hands shake worse the farther he gets away from Oliver’s room.

Marcus grips the back of the closest chair, the spinning of his head stopping long enough for him to realize he’s wandered into a study. Quidditch headlines plaster three walls, the fourth covered by a glass shelf, awards and certificates placed carefully on each level.

He exhales – he’d forgotten that Mr. Wood had had a highly successful stint coaching, long long ago.

It’s no wonder that Oliver loves Quidditch so much. It’s no wonder Oliver needs Quidditch, this much.

Marcus exhales slowly, taking in oxygen not heavy with pheromones and he grabs a random piece of parchment to leave a note for Mrs. Wood, an explanation as to why there were a couple knocked over plants and an assurance that he’d left water and food outside of Oliver’s room. Which he will – once he gets up the nerve to get to that close a distance again.

He really doesn’t want to test how flimsy his resolve is at the time being.

There’s fresh strawberries sitting on the kitchen table, ripe from summer and still wet from being washed. Marcus grabs a large handful, along with a glass of cool water, and trudges slowly back up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

The door swings open to Mrs. Wood’s smiling face when Marcus returns three days later. It’d made sense in his head, to let Oliver’s heat die down, to spare Oliver the embarrassment, to give Oliver space, but the way Mrs. Wood’s smile falters makes Marcus question his choice.

“Marcus,” Mrs. Wood says after a moment, “It’s good to see you.”

“Er, yeah. I uh – brought this,” Marcus thrusts the freshly baked pie into her hands. “Our house elves just made uh, a new batch. It’s blueberry. Oliver’s favorite.”

He’s rambling. He’s rambling, Merlin, please let the ground swallow him now.

Mrs. Wood’s smile is still tight-lipped. “Well, thank you, Marcus.”

A silence falls between them – Marcus scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, shuffles his feet, and tries to stop his face from turning splotchy red. Mrs. Wood clears her throat.

“If that’s all – ”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s seen better days, but it’s no Quidditch injury, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Wood ignores his rude interruption, as she does. “The early heats are always some of the worst, so we’ve been told.”

“Right,” Marcus says, and without anything else to say, he gives her a brusque, short nod and jogs off back to his own property. It was a stupid idea, born out of stupid longing, and even stupider daydreams. He tries to shake off the awkwardness of it all, but the tugging at the pit of his stomach makes him circle the Wood’s property a little too closely in the next coming days.

The thing is, Oliver doesn’t send the customary “Let’s play Quidditch, asshole” letter any time in the following two weeks, no rapid knocking at Marcus’ door with an insistent Keeper on the other side. And when Marcus sends over his own bluffingly-casual letter, no words come to his window in return.

Marcus glumly feeds Ariadne some owl treats before letting her fly off again, resigning himself to another week or two of stone-cold silence.

He’s wrong in his estimation, actually.

Oliver remains out of sight for the remainder of the summer, and it’s only on one dusky evening at the end of the season when Marcus spots Oliver hovering over the crowded tree tops. He’s overtaken by the urge to head out too, grab his broom, and join Wood, but while he’s rash, he’s not an idiot.

He doesn’t get it. They’d kissed - he’d kissed Oliver Wood straight on the mouth and it’d been glorious for fifteen minutes, and now he’s getting shut out worse than he’s ever been.

Oliver tailspins out of sight and Marcus closes his curtains.

***

His last year opens up like a curtained stage, fresh autumn surrounding Hogwarts a clean backdrop for what Marcus feels is going to be an inevitable mess of arguments, Quidditch, and Oliver. He’s set his foot down, to himself at least – he’s going to get Wood to talk to him, because if there’s one thing that Marcus is good at, it’s getting what he wants through force and brute persistence.

But first – Quidditch.

Little Blonde Slicked Back Hair Kid – Lucius’ Malfoy’s proud progeny, Draco, approaches Marcus on the train, flanked by his two thugs. It’s a daring move, because Marcus is sitting with the team, and he knows that the combination of him, Montague, and Bole are usually enough of a combination to send first years running.

Malfoy Betas, though, are particularly smarmy. And sure, Marcus has kept the Malfoy heir on the peripheral of his attention – it’s hard not to with the scenes the youngster likes involving himself in – but it’s purely Alpha politics. His father has his teachings drilled into Marcus’ head.

“What do you want?” Marcus says before Malfoy can open his mouth fully.

It doesn’t deter Malfoy enough, and regardless of how Montague and Warrington are nudging at him to pull rank, Marcus is reluctant to command the kid to leave them alone. Everything about his status feels wrong – the unsavoriness of how he knows he can use his status still lingers in the back of his mind.

“I’m here to make a deal,” Malfoy drawls.

“Don’t do deals,” Marcus grunts in response, ripping out a page from Pucey’s Quidditch magazine for later study, much to the owner’s protests.

Malfoy’s smirk widens. “Not even for state of the art brooms?”

The compartment stills.

“Keep talking, kid.”

Malfoy bristles obviously, but there’s not much he or his two cronies (Goyle? Marcus vaguely remembers one of them from the sorting last year) can do surrounded by older Slytherins twice their size.

A deep breath. “I want to be Seeker.”

Montague erupts into laughter, and Terence’s incredulous expression is enough of a match for how Marcus is feeling. Sure, Potter out-flew Terence last time and he’s fought enough times with Wood about how allowing a first year is pure _treason_ , but he’d be intensely stupid to let Draco Malfoy just waltz in and take an already filled spot.

To give the kid credit, Malfoy doesn’t blanche.

“And what,” Marcus rolls his eyes, “Makes you think I’d consider this?”

Terence hisses something under his breath, but Marcus disregards him, as he does. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of brown hair and rolled up sleeves striding through the moving carriage. For a moment, his mouth dries. For a moment, he forgets he’s in a room full of his fellow Slytherins and holding court.

“Flint.”

“What?” Marcus snaps, and when he refocuses his attention back to the moment, Malfoy is looking at him expectantly. “The fuck did you say?”

“Nimbus 2001’s,” Malfoy repeats, and lets that sit in the anticipation.

“Flint – that’s brilliant.” Warrington breaks the silence first.

“Shut the fuck up, _Cassie_.” Terence snits, but Marcus disregards Higg’s affront.

Bole drawls, “When you can catch the snitch before a first year we’ll listen to you, Higgs,” and then the compartment erupts in arguing and petty name-calling. The same head of brown hair passes again, now with a sugar quill in hand, and Marcus snarls at everyone to shut up.

“Out of Daddy’s pocket?” Marcus stands, and Malfoy takes two steps back before resettling himself. He lifts his chin; Marcus really does not like Betas. “I’ll need your word.”

Malfoy nods, and everyone knows you don’t go back on your word with an Alpha.

“You outfly Terence at trials, you get to be on the team,” Marcus says flatly, and he stalks out of the compartment before Malfoy and Higgs and the rest of his pack can voice their protests.

It’s insane for him to think this, but he can almost pick out Oliver’s scent amidst the paths of students weaving in and out of the compartments. Wood’s walking faster. The sugar quill is balancing between hand and mouth and Marcus wants to give chase, reach out and snap the delicate webbing and just get Oliver to _look_ at him.

He’s a couple steps away when a stream of giggling second years cut across his path, and his unamused “Get out of the way” aren’t heeded fast enough for him to catch up to Wood.

Oliver slides the carriage door open, and steps in between the doors. It’s only when he snaps the second carriage door shut, that he looks over his shoulder, just for a moment. And then he moves on, sugar quill back to twirling in between his fingers.

And Marcus – Marcus stands like an idiot at the door of his carriage, and misses the lure of sugar and strawberries.

***

Terence gets the Snitch before Malfoy, but Malfoy’s a decent flyer, and the team wants the brooms, and Marcus wants both Oliver’s attention and the Cup, so he shakes on the deal.

Terence hexes them all to shreds the next day. Marcus gives him that.

****

Someone’s fist connects with someone’s nose and when Marcus shakes himself of the hormone-induced haze, he realizes he’s the one with blood on his knuckles. Wood’s blood. He feels the bile rise in his throat.

Oliver looks pissed to all hell, fists still raised, and the broken nose doesn’t seem to have deterred him at all. Rather, his figurative hackles are raised and all Marcus can feel rushing at him is red, red anger. There’s a crowd of students murmuring and watching and goading them on, and Marcus feels the weight of a dozen judgements added to his reputation.

How did they end up here?

He traces back three hours. Hour one – Marcus swaggers up to the Gryffindor Quidditch team with a letter from Snape, detailing their annexation of the pitch. Wood gets pissed. The youngest Weasley boy pukes up slugs and the Slytherins win the practice slot.

Hour two – Graham Montague makes a pass at Alicia Spinnet in the hallway. Angelina Johnson hexes Montague with an impressively nasty piece of work, and Marcus flashes red eyes for the first time to get them both to stand down. Oliver watches from the end of the hallway.

And finally, hour three -  Oliver Wood stalks up to Warrington and Bole like the rash being he is and demands reparations for the set of dung bombs he’s sure they were responsible for releasing into the Gryffindor locker room. Warrington insults Wood’s captaincy. Wood shoots back with a comment on Marcus selling out.

Before he could remember where he was and who he was talking to, Marcus had said something along the lines of “If you can’t even win when you’ve got the favoritism of the whole school, maybe you should step down as captain”, and then. Well, then Oliver had swung.

Right. That’s how they got here.

It’s just his luck, really, that the moment Marcus’ fist lands is the moment Professors McGonagall and Flitwick arrive to break up the fight. The sharp bark of his name pulls him back down to Earth, at the gravity of what he’s done.

McGonagall stares intensely down the length of her nose. “Mr. Flint, how dare you raise your hand on an – in such a manner?”

The insinuation is clear – Alphas shouldn’t even think about raising a hand against Omegas, and Marcus has committed a grave mistake. Oliver’s mouth twitches into a grimace, and Marcus watches in astonishment as the fight leaves his body, air being released out of a balloon.

“I didn’t – it was an accident,” Marcus chokes out, because the blood is dribbling from Oliver’s nose and it’s red and striking and a beacon to remind him that he’s just hurt the one person he really, really hadn’t wanted to.

“Clearly,” McGonagall says, nostrils flaring. “Detention, Flint. I believe a lesson in decorum and propriety is needed.”

“Wood swung first, Professor,” Bole protests. A murmur of assent rises from the Slytherins in the crowd.

McGonagall turns a disapproving look onto her star captain, but Oliver doesn’t quell under it. Her sigh doesn’t have much of an impact either. “Wood, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Oliver shrugs, nonchalant even with the bruises already forming under his eyes. “I swung first.”

“Then you will also serve detention with me this Saturday. Now get yourself to Madame Pomfrey.”

Angelina Johnson’s groan of disappointment is drowned out by the rest of the crowd’s murmurs, but McGonagall waves them all away with another sharp remark. Before Marcus can get the apology out from under his tongue, Oliver heads the direction of the hospital wing, and the guilt of it all tells Marcus that following isn’t allowed.

“Nice hit, Flint,” Higgs says over his potions textbook that night in the common room.

Marcus heads up to the dormitory without another word.

He carries himself in a limbo until Saturday noon rolls around. The air is crisp and nippy, sun bright and only partially covered by the clouds. It’s a perfect day for flying, and Marcus is severely unhappy about missing prime practice time. And with his healed nose and thunderous expression, Oliver seems no better.

“Essays,” McGonagall assigns them, still staring at them sternly over her sharp glasses, “About your transgressions and lack of self-control. 3 feet of parchment.”

“3 _feet_?”

“Of course, Mr. Filch could always use extra elbow grease in the trophy room, if that’s what you wish to do, Mr. Wood.”

Oliver shuts up then, glaring sullenly down at his feet. Marcus is too preoccupied by the sweetness of grass and the Quidditch pitch emanating from Wood’s direction to protest. When Wood picks a seat, Marcus picks the odd one over.

McGonagall watches long enough to make sure no jinxes are flying underfoot before settling at her desk, leaving Marcus to stare at the dull stretch of parchment in front of him. He could write a number of things – _I hadn’t meant to hurt him. I hadn’t meant to say that. Of the two of us, he should be the Alpha. Should I feel guilty for being happy that he isn’t?_

But this isn’t therapy, nor is this the place to dwell, so Marcus scratches out an opening sentence that sounds heartfelt enough not to keep him in the room longer than he has to be.

Minutes tick by. Marcus gets distracted by a fly trapped between the double layers of glass that make up the windows. It’s only when there’s a shuffling of seats and desk legs and feet that he realizes Oliver is up by McGonagall’s desk, head bent and talking lowly in an effort to keep his voice down.

He strains his ears to try and catch the words, because Marcus has and always will be nosy when it comes to Oliver. It could be Quidditch plays. It could be graduation plans. It could be anything.

“Wood, while I understand you wish not to – ”

“With all due respect, Professor,” Oliver whispers with the slightest edge in his voice, “I’d rather not discuss this here.”

McGonagall gives Oliver an indescribable look before sending him back to his seat, if only because Professor Sinistra had just slipped into the classroom with a stack of papers clenched in hand.

Oliver’s eyebrows are furrowed, bottom lip wedged behind his front teeth. Marcus can’t stop watching. And this, this is going to be his downfall, isn’t it? He can’t tear his eyes away. He doesn’t quite want to. Oliver in the school year is starched collars and hastily tied ties, and Marcus’ fingers itch to get the red silk undone. His nose still has that small upturn, his lashes still long, and Marcus shifts, swallows hard, when he remembers how he’d traced the tiny scar on Wood’s jaw with his mouth that one summer day.

It’s that that does him in.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Marcus whispers harshly, impulsively, idiotically, as McGonagall continues her conversation with Sinistra.

Oliver continues scribbling on the parchment, head bent and hell-bent on leaving as soon as possible. Enough ink is being angrily transcribed that it splashes the distance to Marcus’ desk and stains his finger. Marcus wipes it off onto his own essay.

“Wood, c’mon. We – y’know, we – you remember.”

Wood’s mouth thins, jaw tight the way Marcus has seen it over and over again. He could draw the line of Oliver’s profile at this point, could trace it over and over again by hand with the amount of time he spends looking. He’d been so close. _They’d_ been so close.

Oliver’s bottom lip is a little chapped, and his agitated biting makes Marcus want to smooth his thumb over it.

“Do you even know,” Oliver hisses, finally breaking the stoniness of two months between them, “How bad my heat got when you left?”

Marcus’ open mouth snaps shut.

Oliver’s knuckles rap sharply against the wood of his desk. “I’d already – whatever. The heat made me focus in on you and then you left me to _deal with it_. Do you even know anything about Omegas?”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus croaks, and then his throat closes up, nerves getting the better of him. “I didn’t know.”

“You’re an idiot,” Oliver says coolly, eyes staring straight ahead. His hand moves of its own accord, soft scratches of his quill against parchment filling the otherwise quiet Transfiguration classroom.

“Yeah,” Marcus concedes after nothing else is said, “Look – Wood, I - let me make it up to you?”

Oliver stares him down, lips curling. And Marcus applies many words to Oliver – passionate, a tad obsessive, talented, hard-working, but never ugly, until this very moment when Oliver is looking at him with more anger and hurt than he’s ever been on the receiving end of.

“Save it.”

And Marcus watches in disbelief as Oliver Wood walks out of detention two hours early. He takes long strides and sets his shoulders stiff and amidst all of Marcus’ awed observation, Wood doesn’t turn back once.

***

The next time Marcus is given an excuse to think about Oliver Wood is no better than the last in where they’re standing, but it does throw his world a little off kilter once again.

It’s become quite a bit of a thing since the start of term – Wood has a piece of candy in his mouth, Wood has the array of sugar quills in class, Wood has something sugary near his body and Marcus had thought it’d just been a habit. Something Oliver picked up over time. It’s not like Marcus spends enough time with him to know him like that – that’s reserved for Gryffindor dorm mates and Quidditch team members and best friends. And then one day the gossip breaks.

“Did you hear,” Montague grins like he’s scored a personal victory, and the rest of the team turns at the glee in his voice, “Did you all hear about Wood?”

“What?” Marcus asks before he can stop himself.

“He’s an _Omega_ ,” Montague says, and he says it like it’s a point of weakness, says it like it’s a shame. “He’s a bleeding Omega.”

Marcus stills.

He hadn’t realized nobody else had known – or talked about it, because if the Woods had expected their son to be an easy Alpha, then so did the rest of Hogwarts. Hell, even McGonagall appointed him as Captain with just a little bias and favoritism on her side.

“I haven’t seen a mark,” Pucey muses, brows furrowed.

Montague settles on the bench, pleased with his audience. “Apparently he’s been using Bell’s makeup to cover it up.”

His lean back into a lazy, smug pose is enough to make Marcus flex his fist.  

“All those sugar quills have just been to hide his scent. Did a pretty good job of it too, until one of his own called him out on it. Gryffindor tact, huh?”

There’s a low undercurrent of muttering and snickering issuing from his teammates. Marcus glares intently at the handle of his broomstick. There’s a tiny nick on the side from where he’d been careless, when he’d dropped his broom to dive after a Bludger loose on the pitch. He knows Oliver has broom polish in precisely the type he needs to fix it, but he hasn’t gotten up the nerve and thick skin to ask.

“What’s it matter?” Malfoy rolls his eyes, “He’s still a pain up all our asses. Just now, no one’s going to take him seriously.”

The snickering grows louder, some shoulder slapping and pig-headed amusement, and Marcus closes his eyes. Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths. Keep the anger in check, that’s all.

But that’s the thing isn’t it? That’s what the league thinks, that’s what the school thinks. Summer can let Marcus lie all he wants, but the cold reality that Oliver had known the minute he got his heat is laid out plain just from toss-away comments from his team.

“You’re all a bunch of fucking idiots,” Marcus says coldly, “That’s exactly why we’re going to lose – because you sorry lot keep underestimating the Gryffs. Forty laps, go on.”

His team knows not to argue at this point, although Montague and Bole snub him quietly on the way out of the locker rooms. The green robes stream out into the grey sky, until they turn into quick blurs. Adrian’s lagging behind a bit today, but Marcus can’t find it in him to yell.

He picks at the scratch on his broom, tearing through the finish with a sharp nail, extending it until a clear pale line spears its way down the black handle of his Nimbus.

He doesn’t know much of anything about Omegas, it seems. And less, perhaps, about Oliver. Of all the bitter pills he’s swallowed in his life so far, this one goes down the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the later than expected update! courses and life caught up to me on the side
> 
> look; idk, the rule is marcus and oliver have to Suffer™ a lil bit - hopefully they sort themselves out, idk, it's not Up To Me ~~


	3. Chapter 3

Halloween finds Marcus staring glumly at his plate, candy corn scattered at his elbow from Warrington and Montague’s quarrel over the pumpkin pie. He picks at his steak, and only looks up at a nudge at his shoulder.

Greta Selwyn, a tall girl his year, grins with a forkful of pasta hovering by her nose. “You heard about Wood?”

“Yeah,” Marcus replies quickly, because that’s all anyone has talked about the past weekend. If he hadn’t already known before, he would’ve known now. “Pity.”

“I’ll say,” Selwyn continues, completely unbothered, “But you’re probably glad, right?”

Marcus splashes his soup a little too forcefully. “What?”

“I mean, you’ve got the upper edge now, for sure. For the cup, I mean.”

“That’s what I told him,” Montague pipes up, “But y’know our Captain. He’s paranoid.”

Selwyn firmly ignores Montague in typical Slytherin dinner fashion. Marcus clears his throat, because apparently it was expected of him to talk.

“Er, yes” Is what he settles on, and Selwyn’s withering look makes him duck his head down back to his plate.

“It really is a pity,” Greta continues, now digging into a piece of chicken that she’d taken off of Montague’s plate, “I bet all the Gryffindors are torn up about losing a potential mate.”

The giggles that arise from the girls makes Montague grimace, Warrington furrow his brow in confusion, and Marcus flush.

“What’s so great about Wood?”

“Lots of things,” Selwyn shoots back at Montague.

“Cut him some slack, Selwyn,” Marcus recovers from the rush of heat to his face, “You know he’s just scared of competition.”

The bickering and gossip continues all the way into dessert, and then more needling of Montague’s crush rises as the team travels down familiar hallways back to the dungeons. But then everything comes to a standstill, Malfoy stopping abruptly and causing a pile-up behind him.

“Hey-!”

“Shut it, Pucey. What’s going on?”

Marcus can feel the curiosity and sharp acridity of anxiety surrounding his team. He pushes past Malfoy and Adrian, and feels that same apprehension cloud him as he looks up at the words painted on the walls. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs start murmuring amongst themselves, and at the center of it all is Potter and his two friends.

“Potter. And some sick shit.” Marcus answers.

“Is that blood?” Higgs asks sharply, but no one answers him.

Malfoy’s gleeful exclamation afterwards escalates the volume of the talking in the cramped hallway. And then the professors and the Gryffindors are rounding the corner.

From the midst of the crowd, Marcus watches as Oliver’s face pales at the corridor wall. He feels that odd familiar tug in his stomach, but there’s too much crowd, then empty space, to warrant Marcus being able to walk over to Wood’s side.

That, and they’re not on speaking terms.

Snape ushers them all to their common room without a word, and sweeps back out as fast as he had swept them in.

“Least it was just that blasted cat.” Warrington mutters, and Marcus draws out his playbook from his bag, forces all his players to focus on the tangible and important. The sharp citrus anxiety fades in his senses until it barely lingers, and only then does Marcus let them go to bed.

***

“There’s a breach in our pitch,” Pucey grumbles to Marcus at their final practice before the Slytherin-Gryffindor game, nodding his head and directing Marcus’ attention to a quick flash of red hair slipping back around the bottom of the Slytherin stands.

Derrick and Bole slow to a hover behind them. Bole raises his Beater’s bat in question but Marcus waves him away.

“I’ll deal with it later,” Marcus says, “Just continue with the drills, your Bludgers aren’t aimed as well as we need.”

He’s lucky they don't question him, because if he were to admit, his reasons for handling the situation on his own is very marginally related to Quidditch, and largely self-serving. Marcus watches Montague shove Adrian away with his shoulder, watches as Montague veers off course by a neatly placed Bludger, and smirks as Pucey catches the dropped Quaffle, flying back overhead to swing it easily into the middle goalpost while Bletchley is distracted by Montague’s curses.

He wonders whether he’s going to be able to continue the Slytherin streak – it’ll end up with the same crushed look on Oliver’s face, and yes, Marcus wants to win, but he also doesn’t think he can last another upset.

Stalking down Wood proves more difficult than he’d like, but he’s fueled by a very righteous sort of protective instinct of his team, and the sheer need to talk to Oliver. It’s been going on long enough, this cold front, and Marcus Flint doesn’t do apologies over letter. He’s never been able to get his words right – not in essays, not in letters back home, and never to Oliver.

“Where is he?”

Katie Bell looks up with a little jump, clearly not expecting the harsh bark directed her way in the Muggle Studies section of the library.

“What?”

“Wood,” Marcus grinds his teeth, already exasperated from checking the Great Hall, the Captain’s office, Hooch’s office, McGonagall’s office, and hovering by the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. He’d gotten a fair number of odd looks, and that’s caused the vein to start popping in his forehead.

Bell is too slow for his liking, the girl still assessing the situation as she puts a heavy tome of a textbook down, so Marcus turns on his heel, heading to the other corner of the library where he’d seen Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins practicing transfiguring their beetle buttons.

“Where’s Wood?”

Jordan raises a thick eyebrow. “What’s it to you?”

“None of your business, Jordan.”

Fred Weasley (Marcus assumes the twin on the right is Fred) juts out his chin in defiance. A strong Alpha candidate if Marcus ever saw one, and he’d be wary of the future if not for the fact that he’s sure no Weasley male has been Alpha since three centuries ago. “Then why should we tell you?”

“Oh for -” Marcus huffs, “Because you lot were spying on us. You should be glad I’m not taking it out on you right now.”

“We’re independent agents,” George Weasley states, and Marcus notices the slow inch of the twins’ hands towards their wands on the table. He uncrosses his arms. If there’s going to be an altercation, he’s not going to be caught unawares.

“Have you checked the pitch?” The other Weasley twin says, as if Marcus hadn’t thought of it already, as if trying to find Oliver Wood anywhere else but the pitch was logical.

His incredulous glare is enough to quell their little jokes. It’s somewhat gratifying to know that his status is enough. Somewhat.

“I came from there, Weasley, thank you _so much_ for your help.” Marcus steels his voice to cool and calm, even though the anger is hazing over the corners of his field of vision. He thinks, dimly, that this is what it must feel like to be his father.

“Er – ” a voice cuts through the tension, “I think he’s in the broom shed. He said he wanted to check on his broom.” Katie Bell resurfaces slowly by Marcus’ shoulder. “If – you want to go find him. There.”

Marcus looks at her eager face, though she’s very clearly trying to hide it. Over the protests of the twins and Lee Jordan, Marcus nods to Bell once and heads out to where she’d directed. The cold wind snaps at his heels, and he’s trying not to rush but he can feel the tug in his stomach, so alluring that he almost forgets he’s supposed to be angry.

The broom shed’s door is open enough that he can see long legs crossed on the ground. Oliver reveals himself to Marcus as he gets closer, head bent and carefully clipping the twigs at the tail of his broomstick.

“Wood.”

Oliver’s head snaps up, wide-eyed, but his surprise quickly sours to a grimace.

“You spying on us?”

The ‘us’ needs no elaboration. They both know with them, it’s always Quidditch, always the team. They’re not them, really, without their place at the head of the team.

Wood places the clippers down, and pulls up his Cleansweep so it rests in his lap. He averts his gaze and Marcus can scent of locker room soap and dirt and sweat on him. It’s intoxicating, confined in the broom shed.

“It’s not against the rules. And if they were, you’ve broken them before.”

“That’s,” Marcus mumbles, “That’s beside the point.”

Oliver’s raised eyebrow promptly displays his skepticism. “Right.”

“Stop sending those twins of yours to our practices, you prat.”

Marcus’ tone gets a little too easy, a little too not angry, because everything from the way Oliver’s hands are fiddling with the handle to his broom to the way he’s sitting cross legged on the ground recalls of summer, recalls of multiple summers, recalls of the very root of Marcus’ yearning.

Wood’s wince at the amicable tone, the intimacy, puts Marcus back on his weary guard.

The silence waits for them to start talking again.

Oliver sets his broom back into place before wiping off his hands on his robes. His look of disdain over to the Slytherin team brooms is almost ugly. “I can’t believe you actually took a fucking bribe.”

“We’ve gone over this,” Marcus says coolly, “You’re the one with morals.”

“You sold out your own best friend.”

Marcus sneers. “Terence can hold his own.”

Oliver shakes his head, in such a way that Marcus feels pure shame at his disappointment. He forgets, for a moment, that he’s the Alpha, the one at the top of the theoretical food chain. Marcus realizes that he doesn’t particularly like feeling so small.

“I’ll call them off if you give the brooms back.”

“Fat chance,” Marcus grunts, and Oliver’s thin smile, cynical and highly unamused, tells them both that it’d been nothing expected. “Call them off. _Now_.”

“I can’t,” Oliver snaps, finally, color rising in his cheeks, “They’re doing it on their own, alright? I can’t get them to stop.”

“Try harder.”

“I can’t,” Oliver repeats, mouth in a near-snarl, “It’s not like I can force them into it. If you’ve forgotten already, Flint, I’m not _you_.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Marcus asks, incredulous, panicking, because he has many reputations but nothing that aligns to what Oliver is accusing him of. Of being _that_ Alpha, of red eyes, and whims taken as commands, and a team that listens purely out of obligation.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Oliver says stubbornly.

Marcus fumbles. “I’m not – fuck you, you know I’m not.”

“Oh, so what I saw with Angelina, that wasn’t it?”

“If I hadn’t, they’d both be in week-long detentions! For fuck’s sake, Wood, what is wrong with you?!”

 “Me?” Oliver shoots back, “Me? You’re an insensitive, entitled wart, that’s what you are.”

Marcus’ Alpha mark is bubbling with heat against his neck, adrenaline making him want to push Oliver up against the nearest surface and _demand_ , but that’s everything he’s being accused of and refuses to do. So he swallows it down.

“ _I’m_ insensitive? We snog and I thought we were on the same page, and then you throw a fit that doesn’t even make sense. I _didn’t know_ , okay?”

And there it is, the real issue dug up by angry, uncaring hands. Marcus gets shoved backwards by Oliver’s hands, but he holds fast. They need to get to the root of this. For Merlin’s sake, they need to or else they’re going to destroy each other.

“This isn’t just about my heat.” Oliver brushes past him, making to stalk out of the broom shed, but Marcus catches him roughly by the arm. The resulting scuffle only makes the acridity of their anger, sharp and bitter, rise around them.

“Stop fucking lying.”

“I’m not –”

“Look, I’m fucking sorry I didn’t take care of you better, okay?”

Wood tears himself out of Marcus’ grip, looking for all the world as if Marcus had punched him. “Fuck _you_. This isn’t about – fuck you, I didn’t need you to _take care of me_.”

Oliver’s voice drips with derision and Marcus holds him by the shoulders, unwilling to let this just end unresolved. “That’s what you told me! The last time we talked about this, that’s what you said.”

“No, you daft prick,” Oliver glares at his forehead. “What I meant was that I tell you I like you, and then you leave once my heat sets in, and don’t mention anything at all, so what the hell am I supposed to get from that?”

The wave of nausea and feeling of his stomach dropping out washes over Marcus, but it’s not him. No, it’s the effects of the confined space of the broom shed and Oliver’s tangible emotions and that's enough to ground Marcus a little further. Oliver’s shoulders droop, the fight leaving him like an old balloon, drifting slowly back down to the ground.

“Wood,” Marcus says slowly, “Wood, it wasn’t your heat. It’s not because you’re -  I just didn’t – I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“It wouldn’t have been.” Oliver says sullenly, although quieter than before.

Marcus sighs, long and low. “It would’ve felt a hell of a lot like it.”

And like that the tension dissipates, seeps out from the cracks between the wood panels of the broom shed. Oliver scuffs his shoes against the dust on the floor, face pink and angry. He’s always so angry these days, Marcus realizes, always looking for a fight, and Marcus feels a little helpless.

He’s not quite sure what to say.

“I told you too,” Marcus tries very carefully, “That I like you. Didn’t I?

Oliver continues staring at the floor. “Not really.”

Marcus wishes, at that very moment, that he was better at words. That he could put into phrases the appropriate words of confession, of apology. His whole center revolves around Oliver Wood, even when he hadn’t realized, and it’s so very clear-cut to him. Only to him, however, and that’s where the wall rises between them.

He’s better with physical actions, Marcus knows, so he takes a gamble.

Pulling Oliver in by the collar is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, and he’s expecting Wood’s fist to clip him on his temple. But Oliver comes into his embrace easily and Oliver kisses back, albeit after a moment’s hesitation. But that’s all that flows through Marcus’ head -  Oliver is kissing back, all the same.  

“Stop,” Oliver mutters under his breath when they part, and Marcus lets him go immediately. Wood blinks a little at being released so quickly, and readjusts his stance, disoriented.

He clears his throat. “I meant - you can’t just kiss me and expect me to forgive you.”

“And I’m supposed to just let the cold shoulder slide, huh?”

Oliver’s smile fights its way onto his face, and it’s the slow kind that Marcus likes most, the tight-lipped, self-humoring kind that he catches on Wood’s face right before every Quidditch pep talk. “Touché.”

“I’m sorry about your heat.”

“Yeah,” Oliver mutters glumly, “So am I.”

He seems to take a leaf from his mother’s book however, and straightens himself out, looking Marcus directly in the eye. “I’m sorry for alienating you afterwards.”

“It’s alright.”

And as endings go to arguments, this may be one of the better ones they’ve experienced.

After another beat, Marcus asks, “Can I kiss you again?” and Oliver bites back a laugh before meeting him halfway.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Marcus gripes after they manage to extract themselves from the broom shed and head back to the castle, walking close enough that their shoulders keep bumping. “A bloke kisses you and you still have to question whether he likes you?”

Oliver looks at him oddly, Marcus thinks, but it could be the trick of the light. As it is, Wood doesn’t carry the conversation any further, instead telling Marcus to walk faster so they won’t miss dinner.

***

And so starts their tentative – well, Marcus can’t quite place what it is, but he’s allowed to hold Oliver’s hand sometimes when they’re sitting out by the lake. Hogwarts takes notice, of course, but Marcus can’t be fucked.

“It’s not the biggest shock,” Adrian Pucey tells him dryly after Marcus comments on the blasé-ness of their teammates, “We all thought you two were keeping something from us.”

Marcus tears a couple more pages out from Pucey’s magazine, just to disrupt his calm. His fun is interrupted when Higgs comes and rescues the offending reading material, much to Adrian’s relief.

“Leave him alone,” Terence rolls his eyes, “He’s telling you what you want to know.”

“They’ll have something to say, though,” Adrian says, now content enough about the safety of his magazine to feel as if he can continue with the conversation, “If you let this thing you have with Wood affect the game on Saturday.”

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Marcus says incredulously.

“You say that now, but better Alphas than you have done stupid shit for their mates, ” Adrian comments nonchalantly, even though everyone who’s listening in – Higgs and Bletchley, though the latter is pretending to be deeply engrossed in Arithmancy homework – knows he’s referring to his own mother’s abandoning of the family Wizengamot seat to be with his other mother.

Marcus fiddles with his tie. “Not my mate,” he says, even though his daydreams and rut-fantasies very clearly lean that way.

Adrian hums noncommittally. Marcus manages to side-swipe Terence and grab Quidditch Digest from Pucey’s hands, and the common room erupts into chaos as the team turns to jostling each other around to ease the nerves of the upcoming match. It’s only when Montague whips a Chocolate Frog Card into Malfoy’s forehead on accident that Marcus bellows for them all to go to bed.

***

While Marcus doesn’t particularly care, his new-found attention to Oliver has created new-found attention to himself. It reaches a peak when McGonagall stares down her nose at Marcus in Transfiguration the Friday before the first Quidditch match of the season. When she places his most recent essay in front of him, Marcus’ mood sours further.

“Please do write in complete sentences next time,” McGonagall says, “Even if Quidditch takes precedence.”

The bright red D glares back at Marcus and he grunts his answer of acceptance. But McGonagall doesn’t move on.

“I’ve heard your team is quite prepared.”

“We are, Professor.”

“The new brooms are a quality choice,” She continues, even though Marcus knows that she must regard him with contempt at his decision, “Wood has been quite vocal about his concern.”

“He hasn’t said anything recently,” Marcus can’t help replying, and McGonagall’s mouth curls into a wan smile.

“Yes, I have seen you two talking more recently.”

Marcus flushes dully. Had everyone noticed?

“Professor Snape has expressed his obvious concerns about your newly formed camaraderie, but I’m sure,” McGonagall raises a thin eyebrow in nonchalance, but her ton of voice indicates that the concern is not far out of reach, “That both you and Wood are above that.”

“Of course, Professor.” Marcus says dumbly.

She pins him with her gaze, as if he’s a specimen under observation and Marcus panics, wondering if she’s trained in Legilimency. When she finally turns to Bole, Marcus exhales.

This cross examination continues with Johnson and Spinnet, who march up to him immediately after he leaves the Slytherin table at lunch.

“You’re with Oliver now,” Spinnet says, with no room for disagreement.

“I suppose,” Marcus says.

The girls exchange sharp glances. Johnson crosses her arms in a pose that reminds him very clearly of his own mother.

“Look, Flint, we’ve got some –”

“Oi,” Wood interrupts them, rounding the corner, and Marcus sighs in relief before he can help himself. Wood's hair is uncombed and his tie is askew, shirt fairly untucked, but Marcus has never seen a better sight.

Wood pulls his teammates aside, and Marcus stands outside their intimate little circle, overhearing catches of “I told you not to,” and “Leave it alone” and concerned muttering from Alicia Spinnet, fastest talking of them all. Oliver sends them off with a quick gesture and a frown.

“What was that about?”

“Forget it,” Oliver says shortly, and he drags Marcus into an empty classroom, settling with his back against the door he closes. “I need to talk to you.”

Marcus waits.

He doesn’t get a sentence, however, nor a question. Rather, Oliver presses himself up close after a moment’s hesitation and catches Marcus’ mouth. It’s an intense sort of kiss, so long and deep that Marcus almost loses himself in the sweet Omega scent in his senses. Oliver lets him move to his neck for a couple of moments before drawing away. Marcus steps forward, confused.

“Can this be – not serious?”

Marcus blinks at Oliver, and he’s momentarily distracted by the dull November sun bleeding over onto Oliver’s skin through the dusty window.

“What do you mean?”

Oliver’s swallow causes his Adam’s apple to rise and fall, and Marcus watches that with the same low simmer of arousal. He tamps it down yet again - this isn't the time or the place.

“Serious as in – ah, forget it.”

Marcus scrambles to find the right words, tries to piece together the tiny pieces he knows of what’s on Oliver’s mind. He comes up unlucky. His hands are empty, but he tries anyways, reaches over and curls his fingers around Oliver’s hand.

“Look – this, you decide what you want it to be.”

Oliver smiles, boyish and young and just like that first time he’d offered his friendship, and Marcus hopes what he’s offering is going to be enough to sustain them past a week, past a month, or however long the length of time it is that Oliver is willing to stay.

***

They come back to Quidditch, as they always do. Malfoy is pale and pacing in front of the lockers before they head out onto the pitch, the only team member who seems to have a drop of nerves in his countenance. Montague and Bletchley are too cocky with their Nimbus 2001’s Marcus can tell purely by the easy lope of their posture as they stand around, needling one another and joking about the witches in the Slytherin stands.

He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

Madam Hooch blows her whistle after they get into parallel lines, the sound sharp and piercing. “Captains, shake hands.”

Oliver’s grip is not the sure and steady one that Marcus is used to. He tilts his head in question, an attempt at being both discreet and inquisitive.

“Scouts,” Oliver mouths, “My da brought them.”

Marcus plays discreet in his surprise.

“Good luck,” he says out loud, and Pucey and Bell titter simultaneously on opposite sides. Hooch blows her whistle again, so they part, and take their respective positions in the air.

***

Even Lucius Malfoy’s presence isn’t enough to make his son focus, Marcus realizes. The bitter taste of losing is only masked by the free-flow of blood down his face from his nose - a nasty collision in the air with Bell when they’d both been dodging the fucking rogue Bludger had caused yet another fracture that's in need of being set by Madam Pomfrey. Even the sight of Oliver’s jubilant expression wasn’t enough to quell his anger at the blonde brat.  

He’s staunching the flow of blood with his robes by the Gryffindor side of the pitch when he spots Oliver’s father. An almost spitting image in their posture and build, but the man has salt and pepper hair and a mustache thick enough to obscure his mouth. Mr. Wood stands as if the pitch should direct its attention to him. On a normal day, at any Quidditch event worth its salt, it does.

A scout, Tornados, by the looks of it, is engaged in friendly banter with Mr. Wood. He’s about to turn tail and head back to his team when Mr. Wood waves him over with a commanding hand and Marcus doesn’t have much choice but to join them, Slytherin robes and bloody nose and all.

“Well flown,” the scout says, introducing herself as Merwyn Finwick with a firm handshake and a broad grin, “A little nasty for our tastes, but you can’t deny talent.”

Mr. Wood claps a firm hand on Marcus’ shoulder, as if they’re old friends, even though Marcus had only attended dinner at the Woods once or twice – to Oliver’s advice and desires, they always used to spend time together out in the fields rather than indoors where his father was always lurking in his office. Marcus had never been able to tell whether it’s because Wood hadn’t wanted him around his father, but the calculating gaze Calum Wood turns towards him is enough to gain a sense of understanding.

“Marcus here,” Mr. Wood starts, “Has been playing as long as my son.”

“Gryffindor keeper, correct?” Finwick says, nodding her head, “Nice saves. Very nice saves.”

“He’s also Captain. As is Marcus.”

“We always want a good leader,” Finwick continues, shading her eyes as all three of them watch Oliver land, still exuberant from his win. “An Alpha then, Marcus?”

Marcus shakes himself out of his stupor of watching Oliver congratulate his team, sans Potter, who had been shuttled off to the Hospital Wing - Oliver’s grin is the most easy-going he’s seen in ages, and the bright glint of teeth and laughter draws Marcus like moth to flame.

Finwick is looking at him expectantly when Marcus refocuses his attention. “Sorry?”

“You an Alpha, son?”

“I am,” Marcus answers, even though her eyes are already on the mark at the base of his neck that's peeking out of his Quidditch uniform, “Does that matter?”

Both Finwick and Mr. Wood laugh, as if he’d cracked the most brilliant joke of the century, funnier than everything the Weasley twins have ever done combined.

“’Course it does,” Finwick replies after she calms herself down, “We don’t want to have to handle heats and the like.”

“What about ruts?”

Finwick waves away his comment with a large, square hand. “Much easier to control, and far less frequent. And Omegas, you know, they’re not really the Quidditch playing type. Isn’t that right, Oliver?”

Wood’s walked up to their little gathering, Cleansweep still held firmly in hand, and his smiling acknowledgement of Finwick’s remarks is tight and drawn over his face. He’s covered up his mark again, Marcus realizes, although it’d been laid bare this morning.

“Not Captains at least,” Calum Wood claps his son on the back. Oliver still doesn’t say a word, even as Finwick looks on him with the eagerness of a scout who’d found fresh blood.

The smell of fresh grass, of sweaty Quidditch robes, and the crowd’s excitement around them masks any Omega scent from Oliver, and Marcus wonders how calculated this exact meeting had been. Wonders, perhaps, if he’s a wrench in the plans.

“Right, right. You have a year left, correct?”

Oliver smiles brightly. “Yeah, I’m in sixth now.”

“Good, good,” Finwick nods furiously, and the Woods are beaming, and Marcus feels completely and utterly out of place, like the truth that he’s supposed to be in on hiding has turned sour yet again. “I’ll look out for you on the pitch next year, but your chances for professional look good, son.”

“And you,” Finwick hands Marcus her card, completely unbothered by the blood stains on his fingernails, “Clean up your plays and we might just want you after you finish. Might as well have you both on the same team. Disastrously hard game when you two aren’t.”

Marcus can only mutter an awed thanks, staring down at the name and address in his hand with a sense of unrealistic dream come true. And it is – to know that he’s good enough, to know that he’s wanted somewhere. He can already hear the pride in his father's voice, boasting and sure, and it's a dizzying reality of the end of his Hogwarts career.

He wonders, though, whether they’d want him if he weren’t an Alpha.

Oliver looks on as his father continues chattering with Finwick, and the loose fist clenched around his broom handle seems to tell Marcus that he’s wondering the same thing.

They walk back to the Gryffindor lockers in silence, Marcus trailing a step or two behind. They’re garnering odd looks from the rest of the students, still chattering as they leave the stands, but Marcus is centered in on the fact that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t latch onto anything tangible that says Omega anymore about Oliver. The locker room is empty when they get there, the rest of the Gryffindor team either having gone off to visit Potter in the hospital wing or still out celebrating with their friends. 

Wood unlaces his Keeper’s gloves with slow, deliberate care and slides them off his hands.

“You’re lying about this still?”

Oliver shoves his Keeper’s gloves into his locker. “Still?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb.”

Oliver shuts his locker with a clang, locks it with a wave of his wand, and sets himself to task untying the laces on his boots. “You heard Finwick.”

“Fuck that,” Marcus tries, but the set of Oliver’s face tells him that he’s not intent on listening to comforting words, “Okay. Okay, how would you pull this off?”

“Suppressants,” Oliver says, as if it’s the answer to all his prayers, “This potion my father found – it’s working, isn’t it?”

Marcus doesn’t want it to, desperately feels like he's holding onto the last thread of an unraveling stitch. But it is, and Oliver’s pleased expression is one that he can’t bring himself to crush. He nods, and Oliver brightens even further. “So you’re just going to take that potion for the rest of your life?”

Oliver doesn’t meet his eyes. “Not the rest of my life. Just – I need to get on a team, Flint.”

He tucks his arms into his pockets, looks up at Marcus from underneath the flop of his hair, earnest in his need for recognition. “You understand that, right?”

And the thing is, Marcus does.


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus spends the weekend hovering on the outskirts of Oliver’s circle, wavering between wanting to be close and feeling completely unrooted at the lack of anything that makes Oliver _Oliver_ anymore. Instead of the now familiar earthy warmth (and strawberries, always strawberries), all Marcus can get is a false metal smell and an anxious pit in his stomach.

“Do you have to,” Marcus asks when Oliver is helping him through some Charms work at the tail-end of the weekend, “Take the potion every day?”

Oliver shrugs, quill moving to underline a passage in a textbook - from the other corner of the table, Percy Weasley pales in the blasphemy.

Marcus doesn’t give up. “Why not just take it before games? Before you meet scouts?”

Oliver looks at him with the same hard gaze that has been turned to him whenever he’d fought for Chasing rights in their summer neighborhood games. “If I only take it then, people will know and tell the team before I can even get there.”

“People already know now,” Marcus responds, and it’s harsh, but it’s true.

Wood shrugs again, choosing instead to slide the textbook over to Marcus, finger directed at his recently underlined passage. “Check this part out.”

Marcus opens his mouth, tries to get another persuasion in edgewise, but Oliver doesn’t let him. There’s another wall up now, one that Wood seems all too content to hide behind, letting Marcus catch glimpses but never quite letting him through.

“I’ll finish this later,” Marcus says instead, and Oliver only nods his head and starts picking up his belongings.

“Got practice.”

“Right.”

“A good effort,” Weasley says quietly, shuffling his own papers as Oliver gives them both a little wave and turns away, “I’ve told him time and time again but he won’t listen.”

Marcus just grunts, shying away from the cool camaraderie Weasley is offering. He watches Oliver leave through the double doors of the library, head tall and bag slung over his shoulder, and wonders whether this is going to end it all.

***

When the news hits all the houses of little Colin Creevey’s body being found in the hallway, Marcus took no part. Maybe because the false sense of being a Slytherin carries over. Mainly because he’s far more preoccupied with the effects of all the suppressants wreaking havoc on Oliver’s body.

Or, more specifically – his heat.

It’d happened like this: Marcus wakes up on the Monday following the game, only thought on his mind of running his team into the ground for their abysmal loss the other day, perhaps a nice Bludger practice aiming at Draco, and while he’s considering all this, a beat of need flashes through his abdomen.

It’s faint enough that he’s not bowled over, but he pauses halfway through getting out of bed, legs bent awkwardly between his bed and the floor.

“S’wrong, Flint?”

“Your ugly mug,” Marcus shoots back at Bole, but his teammate only chuckles, whipping his pillow over at Marcus so fast that Marcus doesn't duck in time.

They get dressed and head down to the Great Hall and Marcus, bless his soft heart, immediately zeroes in on how there is nothing to zero in on. Olive’s tell-tale grin is nowhere to be found at the Gryffindor table. Another pounding of discomfort waves through his body.

“Where’s Wood?” Pucey asks sleepily.

“Good question,” Marcus answers, and grabbing three slices of toast, he leaves his friends to follow his gut.

His feet take him on a vaguely familiar path, up past the classroom for Transfiguration, up past and directly into a leering Peeves who’s about to launch into a rhyme, and who interrupts himself with a cackle at the sight of Marcus, mid-chew and finding it rather difficult to swallow a particularly dry bite of toast.

“Looky look here,” Peeves float upside down, grinning broadly. “Are you here to come to the rescue?”

“What?” Marcus responds.

“That pretty boy who always stinks of you, he _did_ look bad this morning on his way down,” Peeves’ smile turns dark. “I wrote a little rhyme for him, you know, but he turned so pale, he had to run away.”

Marcus glares at the hovering poltergeist, wondering whether it’s worth sacrificing his final slice of toast to lob it at the pests’ head. “Where’d he go?”

“Why should I tell you, Flint Jr.?”

Except Marcus is a Slytherin, and an Alpha, and Quidditch Captain to boot, and so pride of the House and by extension, the Bloody Baron, so Peeves simpers after a cool stare-down and directs a floating finger towards the Gryffindor dorms.

It takes a little ribbing and bullying of a weedy looking Gryffindor first year for Marcus to wheedle the password out of him. He gets past the Fat lady with minimal damage, though she does look down her nose at him and with enough suspicion that Marcus quells in his progress. There’s thankfully only ever been a smooth, cold stone wall for the Slytherin’s to get through. For that he’s grateful.

The portrait door swings open to reveal the heavy red comfort of overstuffed armchairs and pillows, stark in contrast to the sleek furniture of the Slytherin Common Room. It’s warm, for one, fire still flickering in the middle of a bunch of soft looking couches. Thankfully, it seems as if all the Gryffindors had cleared out for breakfast and so Marcus takes his time, wrinkling his nose at the lines of portraits hanging on the walls.

The Quidditch roster for this year looks warily back at him from their frame, Spinnet and Johnson with arms crossed and eyes turned towards what Marcus assumes is the entrance to the maze of boy’s dorms that await him. He takes another moment to scan over the past years, looks at Oliver getting younger and younger, until he disappears from the roster altogether and is replaced, twenty-seven years ago, by a spitting image, albeit a little blonder and much smugger.

Wood’s father moves to the front of his team in his picture, and Marcus takes that as his cue to leave.

“Wood?” The heavy oak door creaks open under his fingertips, and he feels it, rolling down his spine, cool like a wash of water and it would be calming except for the sudden uptick in nerves that pound at the base of his throat.

A low sound issues in response, and Marcus draws himself up, draws on centuries of Flint in his blood, and steps into Wood’s dorm. It’s blissfully empty, but Marcus almost doesn’t notice – because the scent of strawberries and pheromones hang heavy in the air. Because there, burrowed into a quasi-nest of blankets and comforter and pillows, is Oliver’s curled up body.

Marcus supposes the potions have finally let him down.  

“Oliver,” Marcus calls again, quieter this time, and the tufts of brown hair move slightly from beneath the covers of the messy bed. Wood raises his head and the same hazy eyes of that heat-inflicted summer day peer out at him.

His lips are chapped and bitten pink, and even from five paces away, Marcus can see the sweat beading at his temple. It’s magnetic, the bow of Oliver’s neck over his pillow, but it’s clear that this is different from the last time. This is pain and unbalance and scarier than temptation.

Still, Marcus is unable to move away when Oliver calls his name, faint in the throbbing in his temple and the blood roaring in his ears. His knees hit the side of the bed, and before he can fully register, he’s being pulled down by shaking hands. And Marcus hasn’t seen a lot of heats, but he knows this is off just by the way that Oliver presses his nose into the notch of his collarbone, the way Oliver isn’t flushed and pink-cheeked.

Wood’s skin is pale as if he’s been nauseous for hours, and clammy, and Marcus’ Alpha instinct makes him draw Oliver in close, rearranges where the covers have slipped. The thrumming in his chest calms down slightly, fades to a steady, heavy drumbeat. Oliver curls his limbs up into a tight ball, and Marcus tries to unwind him, afraid that he’s somehow hurting himself.

“Stay,” Oliver gasps into his chest, and Marcus combs his fingers through hair damp with sweat, “I can’t—”

“Pomfrey,” Marcus murmurs, pressing small kisses to Oliver’s temple to appease the whimpers, “Let’s go to Pomfrey.”

Oliver shakes his head, thrashes against the pillow. “Can’t.”

He groans, in frustration or in pain, Marcus can’t tell. “Can’t _move._ ”

“You’re moving right now,” Marcus mumbles, as Oliver lines his hips flush against his, and rolls, just slightly. “Oliver—”

Wood presses his mouth against Marcus’ scent glands, and the wet warmth of his mouth against his skin makes Marcus’ brain short out. There’s a murmur of something that Marcus can’t quite make out, and the hormones are flooding all rational decision. He runs his hands down Oliver’s back, inching back under the open shirt, drawing his hands over the clammy skin in some semblance of soothing. Oliver shifts closer at his touch, and the agitation and tension in his muscles uncoil under Marcus’ hands.  

Marcus lets Oliver manhandle him, lets him rut up against his thigh with increasing fervor, and he’s trying to tell himself that this is alright because he’s helping. It doesn’t make the concern subside though, with the way Oliver’s shivering against him. It’s not normal, this – it’s far from the intoxicating lust and need that should be wrapping around him but a desperate sort of scrambling around for a semblance of an anchor.

Oliver sobs into Marcus’ shirt. “Touch me – _touch me_ , please—”

“Wood,” Marcus says, caught off guard, “Alright. Okay.”

He tries his best to touch Oliver in every way but the way that Oliver is begging him to, because it feels like taking advantage, it feels like a fluke, even though so many of his baser instincts are telling him that it’d be helping Oliver out. He lets Oliver paw at his shirt, stays still to let him grind closer in order to gain some relief.

He’s distinctly aware of wetness against his neck where Oliver’s face is pressed up against, and Marcus tries to keep himself calm, tries to project whatever stupid soothing Alpha quality that’s supposed to be in his repertoire of inheritance, because he can’t stand not being able to do anything when Wood’s crying in frustration.

Marcus manages to force some food down Oliver’s throat at some point – the minutes have bled into what must be an hour and so forth, and so forth. He’s glad none of Wood’s dorm mates have come back yet; any more pheromones and scents in this room might escalate the situation to new heights that Wood can’t handle.

It's after waking up from a hazy nap in what must be the late afternoon that Oliver actually moves with somewhat full control of his limbs. Wood draws himself up as much as he can over Marcus’ torso before slumping back down and it’s so jarring that Marcus grips him by the shoulders, fingers pressed tight enough to leave a mark.

“Once,” Oliver pants, chest heaving from the slight exertion and still looking sickly in the dimming light, “Please, Marcus, just – I need it. I need it, _c’mon_.”

He scrapes his teeth over Marcus’ wrist, over the pulse point, and Marcus caves - it's been hours, he should get a medal for this, for Merlin's sake - tugging the bedsheets a little further away from them to give them room to move.  He pulls Wood’s boxers down enough to get a good grip on his cock, and he winces in sympathy – he knows how painful it must be to be on such a high of arousal without relief, clenches his teeth at the memory of his last rut.

Marcus begins a rhythm of steady strokes, and Oliver’s choked sounds vibrate against where he’s got his mouth pressed to the nape of Marcus’ neck. They’re tangled in an awkward position, unnatural in the bend of their bodies towards one another, but Marcus can’t bring himself to rearrange Oliver’s body. The flutter of Wood’s lashes, his slack mouth – it’s a whirlpool of relief and a gorgeous sight that he can’t find a reason to disturb.

Wood comes with a dry sob as his body shakes, and the flash of red that creeps into Marcus’ peripheral is quickly pushed down as Oliver collapses back onto his chest. He’s clammy still, and doesn’t look any better than before. Marcus manages to cast a cleaning charm before Oliver drags his hands back to his body.

“More,” Wood pleads against Marcus’ lips, eyes hazy and unfocused, “Please?”

“No,” Marcus argues, “No, this doesn’t seem normal – let’s – sleep it off and then we’ll go to Pomfrey, alright? You’re exhausted.”

Oliver shakes his head. “But I have to go.”

Marcus looks at him in confusion. “What?”

“To practice,” Oliver mumbles, “The – Marcus, please, just keep going.”

Marcus shakes his head again. “What do you mean practice?”

“That scout’s coming tonight. To watch me play.”

“Merlin, Wood,” Marcus sighs, “You can’t do this now.”

Oliver’s jaw sets stubbornly, mouth tight, and Marcus knows that look, knows it better than anyone else save for probably Oliver’s mother. It’s the stubbornness rolling off of Wood in waves, it's the adamant refusal to let down his guard, or his position, and Marcus is frustrated and angry but he’s not really sure at what anymore.

“I have to get over this,” Oliver sighs, as if Marcus doesn’t understand, and he makes a jerky movement as if trying to rise up off the mattress, except Hogwarts overstuffs everything and all that Oliver achieves is tipping this way and that in his disorientation, “Have to get to practice.”

“Your heat isn’t going away in a day,” Marcus pleads, and he’s almost ready to flash red eyes and get Oliver to lay back down, to go to sleep, but he’d promised himself that he’d never pull something like that on Wood. Oliver would break his jaw if he tried.

“If it’s tonight, then you still have a couple hours,” Marcus switches tactics, “So rest.”

“Flint.”

“Wood,” Marcus gripes back, and pulls Oliver firmly down. He tries to quell the panic, because it’s been pretty much a whole day and Wood’s body temperature and scent seem no better.

Wrapping Oliver up tightly in the covers seems to cause another spell of sleepiness to fall over him, and the arguments of practice and scouts and – by Salazar, Wood’s going to beat himself up over this as well, isn’t he? – Quidditch fall quiet on Oliver’s tongue when he dozes off, shifting to get closer to Marcus’ body every once in a while.

***

Madam Pomfrey looks incredibly stern, more serious than Marcus had ever seen her before, and he’d once tried to walk on a broken leg with the sole purpose of yelling at his team. She hadn’t been happy then, and she’s far from happy now.

“Suppressants, Mr. Wood, will only make your heats stronger when they happen. These potions aren’t meant for tampering with your daily life.”

She sets the potion she’d practically shoved down Wood’s throat on the bedside table. Marcus wants to ask if this is the first time something like this has happened – there has to be other students, unhappy with their assignment, and resolute enough to try and do something about it.

Her tone softens as Oliver burrows deeper into his covers, staring resolutely at the ceiling of the hospital wing. “I understand the transition is difficult. But it’ll smooth over once you let it.”

Marcus shifts uncomfortably on his feet, having stood there for a good hour now trying to wrangle Oliver actually into the infirmary bed. It’s past eight – Quidditch practice is over, and the scout is gone. Oliver keeps asking him what time it is, and Marcus’ refusal to give a straight answer is answer enough.

Pomfrey pulls him aside once the Sleeping Draught kicks in. Even though all Marcus wants to do is hide in his own bed, he stays because he can’t shake that unsettling, unbalanced feeling earlier, when he’d first opened the door to Oliver’s dorm.

“I have to tell you,” Pomfrey says wearily, “That this might make things more difficult for you as well.”

Marcus stays silent.

She continues. “You haven’t marked him yet, correct?”

“What?” Marcus splutters, “No. _No._ ”

Pomfrey stares him down. “You’re sure?”

“I think I’d know,” Marcus says sullenly, crossing his arms and wondering if the rest of Hogwarts thinks everything’s already all set. “And what do you mean ‘yet’?”

Oliver stirs in his sleep, so Pomfrey grabs his shoulder, steers him further away from the bed. “It’s quite clear, Mr. Flint, and I’m sure you must have some awareness of it. His body has already recognized you as mate.”

“Oh.” Marcus says dumbly.

“It may cause his heats to escalate quicker, and of course, the regular attachment between mates,” Pomfrey continues, as if she’s not throwing a cold wave of water over Marcus with each word.

Marcus coughs awkwardly. “Do I have to do anything?”

“No,” Pomfrey pats down her robes as a second year with a profusely bleeding nose comes in the hospital wing doors, “It looks like a healthy attachment. A little intense, perhaps, but that’s the nature of bonds formed your age.”

“Oh.” Marcus says again, because apparently their biology seems pretty intent on the way they’re going to be, even if he’s not sure Wood is ever on the same page as him.

“Steer him away from those suppressants – honestly, whoever invented them had good ideas but the _potency_ of them needs severe regulations…”

Pomfrey waves him away, bustling over to the now teary second year as blood keeps spattering out of his broken nose. “Flying class? Yes, yes, I can imagine—”

Marcus fades out, unsure of what else he’s supposed to do, and he knows standing vigil at Oliver’s bedside would probably be the wrong way to go about navigating what just happened.  He takes the long way back to the Slytherin common room – there’s Astronomy tonight, but he doesn’t have the energy to pretend to find things in a telescope tonight.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a long time when he gets back to a blissfully empty dorm. His Alpha mark sits innocently at the base of his neck, and he wonders if people look at it when he walks past. It’s usually tucked under the collar of his shirt, but do people know, when they just look at him?

He’s tall and broad-shouldered and got the lopsided jaw of all his relatives, so Marcus supposes people must.

He washes his face, rubs vigorously with cold water against his eyes. It shouldn’t feel like this. Knowing Oliver and him can be mates should be a happy thing, but it’s larger than that. There’s too many different things that could go wrong – what would their parents say? What if they regret it? What if Marcus messes up the marking process, because he hasn’t fucked up anything else about being an Alpha yet, and fate would have it so that he’d mess up the one crucial element?

And Quidditch. There’s always Quidditch. His head and his body are heavy to hold up right now.

Marcus isn’t granted enough time alone as he would’ve hoped. Terence is folding his robes into a neat square when Marcus blinks some of the water out of his eyes, and he knows he’s not going to get a quiet night of no human interaction, not with the way Higgs is eyeing him from across the room.

“Where were you? We had Astronomy.”

“Tired,” Marcus grunts into his towel, wiping his face off, “Had a headache.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to skive off.”

“Whatever,” Marcus sighs, reaching around to close one of the curtains around his bed.

“I heard about Wood,” Higgs says, leaning against his own bedpost.

Marcus toes off his socks, swings his legs onto his bed.

“You alright?” Terence asks.

“M’fine,” Marcus shrugs, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s pretty big, determining who your mate is.” Higgs’ voice is kinder than Marcus would like it to be. Slytherins don’t do _nice_ , they poke and prod at your weakest link until you cave and snap back. Especially Higgs, whose soft spot only extends to about two people.

Marcus narrows his eyes. “What’re they saying?”

Terence goes over to his trunk, rummaging through the pile of books and various spare quills until he unearths what he’s looking for – an old worn copy of Standard Book of Spells, Year 4.

“Pucey wants to look at notes,” he explains when Marcus raises an eyebrow, “And not much, so don’t go throwing people off the stands yet. People talk, though. They know Wood went into heat. They know you weren’t in class. Two and two together, y'know.”

Marcus watches Terence unfold some of the dog-eared pages, ignoring what Higgs had just said. “What does he need it for?”

“He’s struggling with Summoning, because the little brat can’t keep focus for longer than a couple seconds,” Terence says, not even bothering to keep the fondness out of his voice, “But I’m not going to make it that easy for him.”

With a sly smile, Higgs rips out a section from his book without any tinge of regret, a section that Marcus assumes goes over _Accio_ in detail.

“You’re just encouraging him tagging along with you like a crup,” Marcus snorts, but Higgs only shrugs.

“How is Wood?” Terence says after a stretch of quiet, in which he tucks the ripped-out pages underneath Bole’s mattress.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sure.” Terence looks unbothered. “But how is he?”

“Bad. I dunno. Really bad. M’worried. That’s stupid, right? He can take care of himself. But it’s bad, and he won’t stop taking those fucking suppressants, and he’s so goddamn stubborn, and now we’re gonna be mates, and that’s – this is all stupid, right? I’m worried.”

Terence has a stupid smirk on his face again at Marcus’ ramble, so Marcus snarls, “Shut up.”

“Sounds like you’re in love.”

“I _said,_ shut up.”

Terence raises both hands in a gesture of acquiescence, and he goes back to tucking some loose pieces of paper into his textbook. Marcus tugs the rest of his bed curtains shut. Once the hangings are properly closed, he flops back onto his pillow, trying to calm the tumultuous emotions in his chest. He can’t get a good grasp on them. He can’t figure out what to do next.

“I’m gonna fuck it up,” Marcus says, staring at the ceiling, knowing Higgs is still hanging around because there’s no click of the door falling shut, “I know I’m going to fuck it up.”

“You’re a better Alpha than that,” is the response that Marcus gets, a rare piece of offered comfort.

The thing is, Marcus has watched his father, his uncle, his grandfather, all of his lineage and beyond, and knows that making their mates miserable seems to run in the Flint family blood just as much as being an Alpha does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest apologies for the big gap in updates since the last chapter!! Semester ending & work starting put this at a bit of a standstill, but here we are, and the next part is already very very underway
> 
> will they stop being messes?? only time will tell
> 
> (poor oliver tbqh)


	5. Chapter 5

“Oi, Bletchley.”

Miles jumps a good three centimeters out of his seat at Marcus slamming his bag down in front of him, fist clenched tightly around his father’s letter.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me. Did your fat mouth tell my parents about Wood?”

His Keeper swallows his mouthful of chocolate frog. “No? No – no, I don’t think I did?”

“Tell me again.”

“No,” Bletchley says a little more confidently, although he drops the wrapper to his candy in his haste to sit up straight, “I didn’t.”

Greta Selwyn and Gemma Farley both look over with mild interest, but Marcus is too angry to care. “Then why the hell is my father congratulating me on a _mate_?”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Montague asks, though he can’t meet Marcus’ eye.

“Fucking –” Marcus scrapes his fingers over his scalp, short hair prickling at his palms, “I didn’t want them to know. I don’t fucking want them to know. _Anything_. Don’t you get that?”

“Higgs – Higgs – _Terence_ , Flint’s scaring me, tell him I didn’t do anything.” Bletchley calls to where Higgs and Pucey are bent over a textbook together across the common room.

“Stand down, Flint.”

“Fuck you,” Marcus throws over his shoulder, “Did _you_ tell?”

He turns on Warrington next, but Warrington only shakes his head adamantly.

“Flint, I swear – none of us ratted you out.” Pucey says quietly, plastering himself against the leather-backed sofa he’s sitting on.

“Like _hell_ none of you did.” Marcus snarls, and then Terence snaps “Stand _down_!” and only then is when he realizes his eyes are red and his canines are dropped and his team is all shrinking away from the center of his violence.  Adrian Pucey is staring at his feet, mouth tight and shoulders hunched. Marcus takes one look and runs out of the common room.

***

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oliver says the next day when they take their breakfast out in the courtyard, legs crisscrossed on the low stone wall.

“Do _you_ want to talk about?” Marcus asks him instead.

Oliver butters a slice of toast and bites down, slowly.

***

He doesn’t respond to his father, nor his cousin, and when his grandfather finally pens a letter in shaky handwriting in early December, Marcus pulls out his own sheet of parchment and explains that whatever they had heard was all rumor and that no, there has been no marking and no mating and nothing of that like here at good old Hogwarts.

 _What about the scout?_ his father writes the next day, and Marcus thinks that if he’s going to play his cards, this one is the one to coast on.

 _Scout’s interested. Have talked, so we’ll see_.

He gets a _Tell me when you come home. Make me proud_ back the next day, the quickest his owl has ever dropped a letter into his lap.

Home is a given. When McGonagall had gone around asking for names, he hadn’t even blinked before passing the list on, even though all he wanted was some form of hibernation in his dorm bed.

He boards the Hogwarts Express with the rest of the team, luggage pulled easily behind him, and he watches as Oliver boards through the window of his compartment, Wood quiet amidst the giggling of Bell, Spinnet, and Johnson.

Marcus doesn’t want to know why they’ve been so off-kilter this past month. They’ve been in a limbo between being wrapped up in one another and veering away. They spend more time with their mouths glued together than anything else, and it’s so very easy to pretend that nothing’s wrong when they don’t have the capacity to talk. 

It’s a lie - he knows why they’re off, he just doesn’t want to think about it.

He’s dozing off to the sounds of Montague and Warrington’s lively debate over Gwenog Jones’ stats when Oliver enters their compartment, door sliding loudly behind him. The whole team quiets down at his disruption.

“Flint – I need to discuss something with you.”

Bletchley snickers, before Adrian jabs him in the gut with a pointy elbow, but all Oliver does is lift his chin. He doesn’t clarify. Marcus admires his nerve.

He shakes the sleepiness off his shoulders, rights himself from his slouch on the compartment seat and follows behind Oliver as he exits the compartment. The weight of his teammates looks are obvious, heavy on his back. He closes the sliding door behind him, so that all of it stops.

Wood doesn’t say anything, not immediately. Instead, he brings Marcus back to an empty compartment, scattering the group of third years hanging around the candy trolley with a well-placed look. When he turns to face Marcus in the safety of their privacy, Oliver sighs.

“You worried about what’s been happening?”

“The chamber?” Oliver blinks, as if he hadn’t thought about it. “I guess. I don’t know. We’re both not muggle-born, are we?”

Marcus shrugs, and reaches for Wood but his boyfriend just retreats further into the compartment, arms crossed and posture stiff.

“I haven’t thought about it a lot, though I probably should be,” Oliver admits, kicking his heel against the carpet. “Mainly thinking Quidditch. You know, like I do.”

“What’re you telling your dad about the scout?”

“Nothing,” Oliver says, leaning against the fake wood paneling of the compartment, “He’s already heard, most like. So.”

Shame on Oliver Wood, Marcus has learned, smells like burning coal – sharp and itchy and so potent you need to remove yourself from it. He reaches forward to do something about it, to offer a distraction (likely) or comfort (unlikely). Oliver doesn’t budge, so Marcus goes to him, crowding Wood up against the shuddering wall of the train. At the first brush of his lips against Wood’s temple, however, he’s strong-armed away from his intentions.

“No?”

“No. I needed to talk to you - my parents said that yours asked about me,” Wood says shortly, one hand pressed on Marcus’ chest to keep him a fair distance away.

Oh. There it is, the real reason he’d been pulled out of both a promising nap and a good necking. “Fuck.”

“Clearly,” and Oliver’s nostrils flare, “Why don’t you want them to know about me?”

“Who said I didn’t?”

Oliver rolls his eyes impatiently. “You’re a bad liar,” he says, as if he doesn’t have his hand directly over Marcus’ heart and can pick up on the uptick.

“And you’re a hypocrite,” Marcus shoots back, “Do _you_ even want people to know?”

Oliver doesn’t say anything, just looks at the uneven floor of the train. The whistling of the engine fills Marcus’ ears.    

“See?” Marcus sighs.

Oliver sighs right back.

“I don’t like dealing with what-ifs.” Marcus says to explain, and Oliver just sighs again, third time in the past three minutes.

“If I’ve made you feel that way – ”

“Cut the crap, Wood,” Marcus interrupts, “You and I both know that we haven’t sorted shit out yet. So - my parents don’t need to know yet.”

Oliver lets his hand on Marcus’ chest fall, and gets a kiss against his temple for his acquiescence. “My next heat shouldn’t be until February.”

“No suppressants.”

“I know,” Oliver bites, stiffening in Marcus’ arms, “I never want to go through that hell again.”

Marcus stays quiet – he’s learned that that’s the best way to not fuck up whenever Oliver gets onto the touchy subject of his heat, his Omega status, and all things involved. Oliver rambles – he always has.

“Look, once that’s over – and we can see what happens when that happens – we can talk about it.” Oliver runs his thumb over Marcus’ Alpha mark, a surefire way of softening him up and Marcus knows he’s doing it on purpose, knows he’s avoiding the question and the situation that Marcus has wanted cleared up, but he can’t be annoyed.

He can’t. He knows Oliver is uncomfortable about the whole situation, always shuts down when people tease him about it, because after the debacle with his suppressants, the whole school had known – Oliver Wood, Omega and unable to handle it.

Oliver kisses him in appeasement, and Marcus ignores the disappointment in his chest.

The train ride is shorter than Marcus would’ve liked, but he does his best to smooth over his features with unconcern when he walks up to his mother. She’s wearing another one of those severe cuts that makes him think she’s about to make him turn his palms over and smack him with a ruler.

A little way off on the platform, Oliver is giving his mother an enormous hug.

His mother nods once in greeting and begins to head out of the station, not letting Marcus drop his bags for even a moment.

“How was your semester?”

“Fine,” Marcus says, and then he gets tugged along in side-along, even though he’s fully capable of apparating himself.

***

If there’s one thing Marcus hates most about winter break, it’s that he’s never allowed to go outside due to the snow and the cold, and a million other reasons his mother places on him. He sneaks out, of course, but he gets an earful every time.

Oliver meets him in the middle of the field, underdressed and pink-cheeked and grinning like a loon. There’s nothing he loves more than flying in the winter, Marcus knows, because Wood is a sucker for pain and Quidditch.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Marcus grumbles.

Oliver snorts. “What are you, my mother?”

He shoves a neatly wrapped parcel into Marcus’ hands. “Here.”

“For?”

“Your birthday, Flint,” Oliver says dryly, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

Marcus lunges at Oliver, except he’s slowed down by the snow at his ankles, and Wood laughs and dodges out of the way for Marcus to land at a crumple at his feet.

“Rude to treat me like that on my birthday,” Marcus says, voice muffled into the snow.

Oliver drags him up, kisses him hard on the lips. “No special treatment, remember? It’s just some pastries,” he gestures to the box, “Since you like sweet things. You’ve no doubt crushed them, though.”

The admittedly crushed box opens up to two delicate-looking strawberry tarts. Marcus looks up, and Oliver shrugs.

“I know they’re not in season.”

Marcus kisses him again. For a moment, they forget about Quidditch and flying, but only just. Wood swings his les over his broom and shoots off into the cold winter air, grinning horrendously.

“Last one to the clearing doesn’t get to eat them,” he calls over his shoulder, and Marcus puts the box down, and chases after him.

It’s a great day, until his family gets wind of it. Dinner is filling and warm, courtesy of the house elves who are far more attuned to Marcus’ tastes than his parents will ever be, but the clink of cutlery rings brutal in the quiet of their dining room.

“You were with the Wood’s son all day, weren’t you?” His mother accuses after Marcus grabs a bread roll. And here he’d thought he could get through this break without the prying.

“Yes, Mother.”

“He usually is,” his father says obtusely, “Got to keep the practice up, don’t you?”

“It’s more than just practice, it seems. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”

Both his parents stare him down. Marcus tears a bit of bread in one hand and scrunches it up between his fingers. The crumbs get under his fingernails. “I guess.”

His parents exchange looks. Color has risen a little higher in his mother’s pale face, and Marcus forces himself to keep a straight face, shoulders tight and tall like his father had said all Alphas must be at all times.

“It’s not serious, is it?” Marcus’ mother asks with her face scrunched in concern.

Marcus stalls, brain fizzling out. “No – it’s – I don’t know, really.”

His mother nods. “Because he’s a sweet boy, I’m sure,” she says in a voice that indicates she thinks otherwise, “But it’s not particularly advantageous.”

“For his Quidditch career, it is,” his father says, disagreeing, and immediately his mother acquiesces, backtracking.

“Of course, but politically – for the Flint name – you have to admit it’s not the best.”

“’Course not. That’d be Selwyn, or Higgs, or one of those bastards and their offspring,” Marcus’ father snorts, “But Marcus here doesn’t want to go into politics, does he?”

“No, I don’t.” Marcus says, even though the idea of being mates with Oliver for the _advantage_ leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He wonders, briefly, if Oliver had ever thought that of him.

His father watches him with a cool eye; it’s a point of consistent disappointment but ever since he’d attained his Alpha status, Marcus hadn’t been pushed in that direction quite as much.

“Flints don't have time for casual dalliances. If the Wood boy has potential for moving you forward the way you want to, then why not continue?” His father cuts into his meat with the air of someone who has it all figured out.

“No,” Marcus shakes his head vigorously, and he thinks _that’s not what I want, that’s not what’s happening._ “That’s not it.”

“In that case, we could pursue different avenues.”

Marcus wants to bite back that this isn’t a thing for _‘we’,_ but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Look – why do we need to rush it?” Marcus puts down the ruined bread roll on his plate. “I haven’t even graduated yet, can’t it wait?”

“Waiting means less options,” his mother says smartly, and his father nods along, hands placed together like a steeple.

“You wouldn’t want to have a mate that doesn’t have anything of value to you, do you?” His father says sternly, absolutely, and Marcus can’t help but want to live up to his standard. That’s just it – the Flint family and their choosing of mates adhere to a strict rule of standards. Oliver doesn’t fit it. Marcus isn’t sure Oliver _wants_ to fit it.

“No. I wouldn’t.” Marcus says, but he wonders when happiness stopped being something of value.

***

Wood’s frantic knocking at the front door makes Marcus rush to the foyer, thanking all his ancestors that his parents are out in wizarding London right now for high tea. He’d begged out, citing a headache. If Oliver keeps hammering at the door like he is now, Marcus might actually have one.

Wood rushes into his house the moment that Marcus opens the door, much to the chagrin of the house elves peeking around the corner, because he’s tracking in snow and dirt in his muddy Quidditch boots. Oliver doesn’t seem to notice, hair sticking on end and looking at Marcus accusatorily.

“Mrs. Selwyn ran into my mother this morning, and for some reason, they talked. Curious, right?” Oliver says, jaw clenched and eyes hard.

Marcus looks blankly back at him.

“Apparently – apparently, Mrs. Selwyn thought it _pertinent_ for my mother to know that they’re in talks with your family. The Flints, the _old house of Flint_ ,” Oliver scoffs, “About you potentially finding a mate in Greta or her sister.”

Marcus curses. “Didn’t realize they’d move so fast.”

Oliver stills his pacing. “You – knew about this?”

“We had a conversation.” Marcus says shortly, and leaves it at that. Wood knows his parents enough. He knows how that conversation must have gone.

Oliver’s face goes through a range of emotions, a bite to his bottom lip, a tick in his jaw, some rapid blinking, but Marcus can’t put it all together.  He realizes he can’t detect any sense of Omega on Wood today.

“You’re not taking suppressants again, are you?” He asks sharply.

“Small heat flares,” Wood mumbles, waving away Marcus exasperated sigh and concern.

The house elves push a tray of tea and biscuits over to where they’re still standing in the foyer, and Marcus feels bad about their efforts of hospitality. He offers Oliver a cup of tea, which immediately gets shot down with a look of derision. Alright then.

“So – you’re mad about my parents trying to arrange this bullshit?”

“Yes,” Oliver says, continuing his pacing again, “No. I don’t know. Fucking hell, why the hell did she go out of her way to tell my ma?”

Marcus crushes a sugar cube with a spoon against the plate. “I guess Selwyn must’ve spilled gossip back to her parents. I dunno.”

“So what?” Oliver laughs, a little panicked. “What? She needs to let my family know that theirs is a threat? Merlin, I hate wizarding politics.”

“Now my mother wants to talk about how serious _this_ is,” Oliver continues, muttering more to himself than Marcus and Marcus can only stand there, stupidly, with his cup of tea in hand, and wait for Oliver to come back to him. “I don’t – fucking hell. I haven’t even talked about it with _you_.”

“Maybe we should do that.”

“I said, after my next heat.” Wood says stubbornly. “Please. You promised.”

“I didn’t _promise_.”

That brings amusement to Oliver’s face, Marcus’ affront of being accused of doing something so spectacularly soft and un-Slytherin. “No, I suppose not. Whatever. Sorry for – bursting in.”

“You’re not staying then?” Marcus asks.

“No,” Wood sighs, “No, my father wants to discuss teams with me. Ever since the Tornados stopped responding, he hasn’t mentioned Quidditch once. I should probably go home.”

“Alright,” Marcus says, “Don’t – don’t take what he says too hard, yeah?”

Oliver shrugs, running his fingers through his already messy hair and looking apologetically at the house elves beginning to mop the floors. “Yeah. Let me know if, um, if anything else happens with the Selwyns, alright?”

He’s not sure he’ll even hear of anything until his parents have finalized a contract, or ambushed him with a meeting with Greta, or any of those classic scenarios of catching him off guard and without a plan. All the same, Marcus agrees to Oliver, and sees him out the front door.

Their oldest house elf, Floppy, gives Marcus a withering look. “He’s a nice boy, but flighty. Yes, young Master Flint, very flighty.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Marcus says, and drains his tea in one gulp.

***

Greta Selwyn approaches him while Marcus is returning from the first Quidditch practice of the semester, and she doesn’t even wait for the sweat to stop dripping from his nose before she grabs his arm and deposits him down on a leather armchair.

“Would you like to tell me why your mother has approached mine about you taking my older sister as a _mate_?” She hisses the last word, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Marcus uses the cuff of his sweater to wipe the sweat off his upper lip. “It’s just talks.”

“You know what our families are like. Talks don’t ever stay just talks.”

“This will,” he reassures her, “Because Wood-”

“Wood heard my friends discussing it today,” Greta cuts him off. “No reaction. What’s with you two, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why haven’t you marked him? Everyone knows it’s going to be him. Half the room gets doused in pheromones when you two are within three meters of each other.”

“It’s slow, okay?” Marcus grunts, “We’re taking it slow.”

“Well, chop chop, bastard,” Greta sighs, standing up to return to her friends, “For my sister’s sake at least.”

***

 A series of snowstorms cover Hogwarts at the end of January, which means the owls get backlogged. Marcus receives three at once, one morning, all addressed from his mother, and all informing him of family affairs – the Bulstrodes had had a dinner party of upmost importance – and of the talks with the Selwyns. Marcus doesn’t read the letters in too much detail, because the thing about mates and marks and bonding is that both individuals need to actually be present. Small silver lining, perhaps, but Marcus knows he’s never met Esther Selwyn and has no plans to meet her, regardless of how much his father is arranging casual get-togethers.

Casual, his ass.

Still, amidst all the fear about the Chamber of Secrets, people rub their noses into his and Wood’s business. Oftentimes, even Marcus forgets to keep the letters out of Oliver’s sight. He hadn’t asked past that one day over break, and Marcus had, admittedly, agreed to wait until the next heat. Which has yet to happen, and so the topic had never been breached.

Until, of course -

“The talks are still going, huh?” Oliver says out of the blue. He’s got a dark turtleneck pulled up high over his neck, bundled up in his winter cloak as they watch the Hufflepuff team practice, wand twitching in his grip. It’s become a bit of a habit for them, sitting out in the stands in the cold and watching people fly. No longer are they allowed to have late night practice sessions, so rain or shine, snow or sleet, each team has been taking advantage.

The other teams had been disgruntled at first at their observing, but with Madam Hooch and the occasional other professor around, it was hard for the teams to argue that the Gryffindor and Slytherin captain might be using the time to cheat, as even Wood and Flint wouldn’t risk fielding that accusation in plain sight of an authority figure.

Marcus knows Wood has probably never thought about. He can’t necessarily say the same for himself.

“Hm?”

“I saw,” Oliver says quietly, “Some of your letters, when we were at lunch.”

 “It’s nothing.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be,” Wood says nonchalantly, and Marcus freezes. “How do we know we’re right for each other, huh?”

Marcus pushes Oliver off of him, feels a wild panic rising in his throat. The conversation has derailed incredibly quickly, and he’s scrambling for proper footing. “You dumping me, Wood?”

Oliver looks down. “No - no - I didn’t mean _that_. I’m just asking.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to talk.”

“Well, let’s talk now,” Wood shoots back, chin jutting out defiantly, and Marcus can feel it, the rising heartbeat underneath the wool, the rising glitter to Wood’s eye. “Seeing as your parents are also hell bent on _talking_.”

“What do you want me to do? Disappoint them for good?” Marcus asks, because of all people, Wood knows what that’s like - knows exactly the kind of pressure that one can feel when being stared at across the dinner table by a father. “And Merlin, I thought you wouldn’t rag on me for this. Fuck, half the reason I’m doing this is because you can’t make up your _fucking_ mind.”

He forges on. “We’re mates, Oliver. That’s pretty fucking clear.”

“So?” Oliver pushes back, “What, because our bodies have just latched onto one another, we don’t get a choice?”

“I’m not saying that. Why do _you_ think that?”

Oliver pulls angrily at his gloves. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Then _let_ me. You never tell me – if this is about how everything’s different because you’re an Omega, then _tell_ me.”

Oliver shakes his head, dodging the question. “I just – I just can’t believe you’d want to bond this early—”

“I don’t,” Marcus groans, “Merlin, Wood, it’s my father doing the talks, not me.”

“Don’t you? I can feel it, Flint, I’m not an idiot.”

Marcus stands to match Oliver’s posture, and they’re now separated by a couple rows of stands, Oliver having paced up and down in their arguing. “Alright, fine. So what if I want it?”

Oliver takes more steps further away, and Marcus wants to pull him back in, because he’s losing him, he’s losing him to the pressure and their roles and Oliver’s personal turmoil. The one that Marcus has never been able to break through, hasn’t been able to help in any way.

“I thought we were getting on the same page. When you came barging into my house over break, I thought that was because you didn’t want the talks to be happening. I thought you were okay with us being mates.”

He can’t hide his disappointment, hurt bleeding out of his body language. It spreads to where Oliver stands, and Oliver can’t look him in the eye anymore. It’s amazing, how quickly Oliver retreats from him now when they disagree. There was a point in time when fists and arguing and late-night debates were the norm, and Marcus misses the feeling of wrestling one another over who would get the better broom, instead of this weird tightrope they’re constantly walking on.

Everything was so much simpler.

“It’s not…fuck, Flint,” Oliver says slowly, losing some of his righteousness, deflating at the sight of Marcus’ drooping shoulders, “It’s not that I don’t want it, I just…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Marcus is sure Oliver himself doesn’t even know what he had set out to say.

“I can’t figure you out,” Marcus sighs, dread blooming in his side like he’d just been clipped in the ribs by a wild Bludger, “One moment you want me, the other moment you don’t. I’m just playing your game, Wood.”

“I’m not playing –”

“I love you. Don’t you get that?” Marcus says, and it’s a sad proclamation, imperfect, saying it for the first time on splintered stands, standing two meters away from one another in a midst of an argument.

Oliver stills with his hand halfway through his hair. “What?”

“I,” Marcus says, and then he can’t go much further. “You know.”

When Oliver looks up at him, it’s slow and calculating and frightfully wary. “Okay. Okay, but that doesn’t change the fact that your father’s pulling a hell of a lot of strings to get the Selwyns settled.”

Marcus ignores that, focuses in on the slight wide-eyed look Oliver has stuck on his face. “Do you love me?”

“I,” Oliver swallows, and the air grows thick with apprehension, with the scent of dirt and Quidditch pitches and the stream by their houses in summer. “That’s a hell of a lot you’re asking, Flint.”

“Do you love me?” Marcus repeats.

“I don’t need you,” Oliver swallows, drawing himself up in a manner that is so similar to his father in the stands that it makes him seem small. “I don’t need anything.”

“I didn’t ask that,” Marcus says, because he hadn’t. “That has nothing to do with this.”

Oliver holds steadfast to something that Marcus can’t place. It’s in the pull of his posture, the straight back and the lifted chin and the hands clasped firmly by his sides. Marcus wishes there wasn’t this juxtaposition, the clear hypocrisy of Oliver’s façade and his scent giving him away.

He’s sure that Oliver must hate it too.

“Loving me doesn’t mean that you need me.”

 Oliver closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip, keeps his eyes closed. “But it does.”

His eyes flash open, derisive and decisive and very, very conflicted. “It does – that’s how this works.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Oliver laughs harshly, “You don’t have to think about it. You’re exactly what you’re meant to be.”

He goes to sit, heavy, on the top-most stands, the ones the little first years get nosebleeds from. Marcus doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to follow.

“I don’t know,” Oliver blurts out, “How to be a good Omega. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be, alright? And I hate – I absolutely hate the fact that now because of this, that I’m going to need you for the rest of my bloody fucking life, and you’re going to get Quidditch and _everything_ and I should be happy for you, you know?”

Oliver’s bottom lip trembles, but his eyes remain dry. “And I am, but I’m not. It’s so fucking selfish.”

Marcus holds his tongue, but it hurts, Wood’s admission. He’s not surprised, though – Oliver had always needed Quidditch more than Marcus, and that had been that.

“There’s this big ugly thing inside of me that I can’t handle,” Oliver says quietly, “I can’t be what you need me to be.”

“I don’t need you to be anything.” Marcus says, because he doesn’t. He’s never wanted anything but Oliver Wood, untouched by anything but Quidditch injuries and sunburns and sweat and grime from practice.  

“No?” Oliver raises an eyebrow, smiles wryly, “Okay. But that doesn’t change the fact that I do. I already do, you know that? Every heat, I’ve needed you and now I’m going to keep needing you, and it’s been that way since my first goddamn heat and I – ”

Oliver stops, catches his breath. Marcus feels like he’s going to throw up. The air’s thick and heavy with the most gut-wrenching emotion Marcus has ever felt, a deep sadness that he can’t bring his head above.

“Of _course,_ I’m in love with you,” Oliver finishes, and lets his words fall at their feet.  

“You hate it.” Marcus says, his voice wavering too much for his own comfort, because he gets it now, and there’s really nothing he can do, is there?

Oliver just looks at his hands. They don’t speak for what feels like an eternity, just the whistling of wind in their ears and the cold biting at their noses.

“I want you to be,” Marcus manages, finally, after countless false starts in his courage, “you know. But if you’re going to hate it, Oliver – you hate it so much. You’re so angry and hurt and mad at yourself all the time, and I don’t want to be a reason for that. So if you – if you don’t want it, that’s okay. It’s okay with me.”

“I’ll just tell my father, then,” Marcus continues, voice too loud and too strange and Oliver still won’t look at him, “That he can go ahead. If that’s what you’d like?”

He leaves it as a question, on the slimmest of hopes that Oliver will tell him not to, that he’ll get to keep loving Oliver Wood. But the longer that Oliver doesn’t raise his head, the more Marcus knows that he’s going to have to stop.

His throat feels raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Marcus says, though they both know it’s not. “It’s really okay. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

That’s not all he wants. Oliver underestimates him, or overestimates his own nastiness, because if anyone’s the selfish one out of the two of them, it’s him. He’s the one who’d hoped for some sliver of chance that he’d have a chance with Wood, that they’d been able to fit together like his hormones had wanted them to. He’d wished that, maybe on a constellation, or a broken off broom twig, or a perfectly centered goal, and now he’s paying the price.

Marcus retreats from the stands, turns away from Oliver still sitting there. He doesn’t want to see the relief show in Wood’s shoulders, doesn’t want to know how much this fantasy of his weighs as a burden.

***

“What the hell, Flint?” Spinnet stalks up to him three days after that day in the Quidditch stands, and everything still stings like a fresh cut. “Everyone’s saying that your family and the Selwyns are in talks, and I’m here to ask you—”

“We’re in talks,” Marcus replies bluntly, shoving an apple into his bag before Warrington can snatch it out of his hands. “That good enough for you?”

Spinnet blinks rapidly. “What?”

Marcus moves away from the entrance of the Great Hall, because first years are staring and Wood’s heading their way with the rest of his team flanked behind him. It’s not the day for an altercation. The hurts not yet scabbed over enough for Marcus to blow it off.

“What about Oliver?” Spinnet calls after him, and when he darts his head back to look, she’s following, bag twisted against her hip as she has to take longer strides to keep up with him.

Marcus keeps walking, staring resolutely at the stones of the wall.

“Flint, what the hell – you don’t get to do that to him!”

“I’m not doing anything to him,” Marcus says through clenched teeth, and he’s sure his knuckles are white against his bag, and his eyes aren’t their normal color anymore. He keeps staring at the wall in hopes that he can keep himself under control.

“Do you have any idea how much you –”

“Leave him alone,” Wood mumbles, catching up to the sounds of their conversation.

Spinnet turns. “ _Oliver_ —”

“Just leave it, alright?” Wood says desperately, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Johnson and Bell have come up now, flanking their captain, and Marcus forces himself to keep walking. Their heads all bend together in a hurried, animated discussion, and Wood pulls them back in the opposite direction, obviously avoiding a scene.

***

Valentine’s Day sucks ass. Gilderoy Lockhart can take him and his singing cupids and confetti hearts and shove them down his throat.

***

The first time Wood kisses someone else, Marcus doesn’t realize. He hears about it, sure – there’s only so much speculating about who the Heir of Slytherin is before it gets old, and Hogwarts latches onto the next best thing. The next best thing is the splintering of Wood and Flint, and how Wood had been kissed by a seventh year Gryffindor at one of their common room parties, and how Wood had let it happen.

The second time, he sees it and feels it all at once.

A sharp stab in the gut, right around his navel, and then the hurt bleeds all over his body. It’s Hogsmeade, it’s the Three Broomsticks, and it’s just some random Ravenclaw boy that Marcus has never paid attention to, but suddenly the environment feels like an attack.

Marcus shoves away his pint of Butterbeer, and Montague and Warrington are thick, sure, but they’re not thick enough to say anything. Pucey wilts a little in the middle of his story, but they all let him leave. Let him lick his wounds, more like.

Nobody leaves Hogsmeade this early. The streets are empty and white and distractingly beautiful. Marcus walks back to the castle in silence, mind as blank as the fresh snow on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize but like - they'll be happy soon. i think. lmao idk oliver has a mind of his own in this story rip
> 
> feel free to yell @ me in the comments


	6. Chapter 6

He and Wood leave a wide, wide berth in between them as the year progresses. He’d rather not hang out in the Slytherin common room, if he’s being fair, but that’s the only place where the possibility of running into Oliver is as low as it can be, so he uses it as refuge. It’s aggravating though, when his peers finally start thinking about NEWTs.

Terence always wavers between nagging Marcus to study and snickering at his abysmal grades, which Marcus doesn’t truly give a shit about, but it does grate on him. He’s never been good academically, and with the Charms help from Oliver gone, his grades in Flitwick’s are tanking.

He’s trying. There’s too much ingrained fear of letting his father down that would deter him from at least trying but every moment he’s staring at his open books is spent doodling out quaffles and Quidditch hoops and thinking of ways to hurt that stupid, poncy Ravenclaw boy that had hung around Oliver for a good week and a half.

“Flint, you’re ruining your parchment,” Terence comments casually, daintily capping his own ink.

Marcus looks down at where he’s been scratching out angry lines through his paragraph. The ink bleeds through to the table. He sighs, grabbing another roll and copying his work over.

Bole looks at him with an unamused gaze. “Can’t believe you’re still sulking.”

Terence snorts. “’Course he is. He got dumped by Wood. You think his pride can handle that?”

“Shut up,” Marcus snarls out, teeth grinding against one another, and he’s flashing red eyes now, but he can’t be bothered to care. He hasn’t bothered for a while now, does it to get his team to shut up during practice and actually focus instead of spending twenty minutes barking thinly veiled threats. It’s so much easier, and he doesn’t have enough guilt to care anymore.

Bole stands down immediately. Higgs isn’t bothered, is the only one to remain unbothered half the time.

“Stop doing that.”

“Then stop talking about Wood,” Marcus bites back. “He’s irrelevant.”

Terence falls quiet. Marcus turns his attention back to the words in front of him, and they’re swimming now. He can’t focus on any line of text, and his anger is welling up and about to spill over. It’s not worth the frustration, or the time. He slams the books shut, making Pince glare at him with increased intensity, and leaves to the refuge of his bed in the Slytherin dorms.

Bole must tell the rest of the team about Marcus using his compulsion, because for the next week, nobody sets him off. Then again, nobody tries to talk to him. Marcus almost misses Pucey’s inane chatter, if only because he realizes that he’s bone-cripplingly lonely.

One day, Marcus just quits going to Charms class altogether.

***

“Flint.”

Marcus is sweating through his shirt in the odd wave of May heat but the voice still brings chills to his skin. He looks down, and there’s Oliver, slumped against the wall a staircase down from where Marcus is standing, empty Firewhiskey bottle resting against his shin. One bottle isn’t enough to explain the posture, but he knows well enough that the Weasley twins are able to smuggle more than just a handful in.

 “Hi,” Wood says.

It’s still before curfew, just by a little bit. Marcus is tugged along by his heartstrings.

“Hi,” Marcus replies. “What’s with the pity party?”

“They cancelled the match,” Wood mumbles, “And my da had taken time off to come watch. With a scout that - _hic_ \- that actually didn’t care that I’m an Omega.”

“That’s not your fault,” Marcus says cautiously. “What team?”

“Puddlemere,” Oliver says, picking at his nails. “They canceled it.”

“That Granger kid was found in the corridor. Clearwater, too. Don’t be a selfish prick.” Marcus says harshly, but Oliver rolls his eyes, bolder and brasher with alcohol in his system. They shouldn’t even be out here right now - should be sequestered into their common rooms while their Heads of Houses figure out whether to send them all home or not.  

“Please,” Oliver snorts, “As if you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“Maybe,” Marcus says sardonically, “But I wouldn’t say it out loud.”

“Anyways,” Oliver forges on, “Anyways, the twins had thought we’d win – which, ha, fair, because it’s Hufflepuff and their defensive side _sucks_ this year. And so. There was a lot of Firewhiskey.”

“How much did you have?”

“A lot,” and Oliver’s head tips back to look at him, eyes glazed and humorless, “I’m never going to get to play Quidditch after Hogwarts, am I?”

“I’m not doing this,” Marcus says abruptly. “I’m not just going to – No. You can vent to Johnson or Spinnet or Weasley, but I’m not going to listen.”

He tries to move away, but he’s glued at the sight of Oliver, in closer proximity than they’ve been in months.

“But you’re the only one who gets it,” Oliver argues, standing up on shaky feet and bracing himself against the stone wall. “Everyone else either just – thinks I’ve got it sorted, or that I’m _content_ , and you’re the only one who knows how goddamn horrible of a person I am.”

“You’re not horrible,” Marcus sighs – he’s known horrible people. He’s had dinner with horrible people. Wood’s selfish, maybe, but he doesn’t come close.

Wood knocks the Firewhiskey bottle over with a tap of his shoe. “I broke your heart, though.”

Marcus sneers, though his heart has just dropped to his stomach. “Don’t give yourself so much credit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your fucking apology,” Marcus drags his feet to action. All he’d wanted was a quiet walk around the castle, something to clear his head after another bout of lashing out at his team, and now he was getting Oliver Wood, throwing his pity at him.

“Flint – Marcus, listen.” Oliver says, words slurring slightly together, and that’s how Marcus knows that all of this is just a relapse of vulnerability, Wood looking for an anchor for the time being.

Wood stumbles in his steps, tripping over his laces, the ones that are always too long regardless of how much Oliver ties them up. Marcus goes to stabilize his falling ex-boyfriend, and cringes at the burst of pheromones that happens when they touch. It’s too dangerous, because Oliver _had_ broken his heart, still actively breaks his heart, and Marcus doesn’t feel like crying anytime soon.

Oliver’s nose presses against his cheek, their faces a margin apart. Marcus closes his eyes, inhales to gain his self-control, seeing as Oliver has none right now.

“We’re not healthy for each other,” Marcus says, trying his hardest to keep Wood upright. “We tear each other apart.”

“You don’t believe it when you say that,” Wood sighs, head lolling onto Marcus’ shoulder. “We’re fucking - so fucking brilliant together.”

“Oh, so now you want me?” Marcus shoots back, because it stings, being strung along like this, always falling to Oliver’s whim. He’s too weak-willed for this. Too easily played, and Oliver has subconsciously known how to play him since they were kids.

Oliver looks down at where his hands are splayed across Marcus’, and there’s that shame again, oaky and fog-inducing in Marcus’ brain. “I always want you.”

Marcus swallows. Stares at the faint smattering of freckles by the bridge of Oliver’s nose, the scab healing by his right eyebrow, the slight split in his lip by the corner of his mouth. He can’t breathe. He wants, so badly, and he can’t breathe.

“You can say that,” he says, when Oliver doesn’t say anything else, “But I’m never going to know if you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Wood looks at him, wide-eyed and imploring.

“You can say that,” Marcus repeats, and then he untangles Oliver’s arms from his body gently, turns his back, and storms away from Oliver calling his name.

***

“My parents say we’re going to have dinner soon,” Greta Selwyn informs him on their last train ride away from Hogwarts. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Wood’s familiar profile, pausing in his browsing of the candy trolley.

They hadn’t talked since that night that Marcus had run away. NEWTs gave Marcus an excuse to hole up with his friends, and without Quidditch there wasn’t the possibility of running into one another on the pitch. Marcus wasn’t going to seek out Wood, and Wood, it seemed, had gone back to moving on. Gone back to Quidditch, now that the Chamber had closed and he had the whole of next year in front of him to expend his efforts on something.

Marcus watches Wood pick out a sugar quill, and inhales deeply. He’s made peace, he thinks, with not having Oliver Wood in his life anymore.

“Flint.” A snap of fingers in front of his face pulls his attention back.

Greta Selwyn looks how Marcus feels after the string of NEWTs they’d taken, usually immaculate hair out of place, and dark eye circles still prominent under her hastily applied makeup. Still, she holds herself with some level of poise.

Montague raises his head at her words. “Wait, you’re eating with Flint? What for?”

“None of your business,” Greta says curtly before leaving the compartment, and Montague wilts.

Marcus takes pity on his teammate and explains about the talks between their families.

“So – with Greta’s sister then? Not Greta?” Montague asks after Marcus mumbles out his explanation. They still don’t talk about Wood and that failed relationship openly, though everyone knows it's the reason for all the explosions of anger he’d taken out on them before Terence had yelled some sense into him.

“Fucking hell, Graham,” Warrington snorts, “Just ask her out.”

“She’s leaving, though,” Montague points out dejectedly.

“Lost your shot then, didn’t you,” Marcus says baldly.

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Montague snaps, before paling and shutting his mouth. He and Warrington exchange equally wary glances.

Marcus sighs. He’s truly ruined his reputation as an Alpha, even amongst some of his oldest friends. “Yeah, I’m one to talk.”

“Flint, I didn’t mean that—”

“It’s true, though,” Marcus grunts, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. “Never going to get him back, am I?”

“Don’t say that,” Adrian pipes up, pulling out a new Quidditch magazine from his bag and waving it in front of Marcus, “You wanna read?”

“Nah,” Marcus says, smiling slightly and cuffing Pucey on the back of his head. The tension in the compartment dissipates and Marcus’ chest fills with relief that while he’d fucked a good number of things up this year, at least his team can still be righted.

Terence wrinkles his nose at Marcus’ wrestling Pucey into a headlock with the hoots and hollers of Warrington and Montague backing him up. “Stop treating him like a child.”

“That's what _you_ do,” Marcus shoots back, basking in the disgruntled effect of Higgs’ following eye-roll.

***

Dinner with the Selwyns doesn’t end up happening, because while Marcus doesn’t think he’s a troll, the graders seem to think otherwise. That, and his horrific studying habits have finally come back around to bite him in the ass.

His father’s angry, to say the least, about his NEWT results and the falling out of the talks with the Selwyns just adds insult to injury. There’s a stone-cold silence which glazes over their manor following Marcus’ scores, and Marcus hides in his room to escape the chill. He doesn’t try pushing his luck with Quidditch; instead, he picks at the slightly ragged twigs of his Nimbus and resolutely closes his shades to keep himself from wanting the early morning sun.

It would be so easy to blame Oliver Wood when his parents ask for a reason. He can’t, though, not one-hundred percent. Had he stopped caring by the end of the year? Yes. Had Wood forced Marcus to miss an entire question on an essay because he hadn’t known anything about the Goblin Wars of 1752? Definitely not.

Greta Selwyn writes her apologies, but tacks on that it’s probably for the best that the talks don’t go through. Marcus has to agree, and avoids asking if she knows the reason why – it’s one thing to be shamed in his own household, the other to have the entire Hogwarts body knowing that he’s about to repeat his final year because he was too _stupid_ to pass for even Quidditch teams.

It’s not just the gossip hoards at Hogwarts that he’s worried about. He suspects a small part – no, probably a large part -  of Oliver was eager and looking forward to be free of Marcus’ presence in the school for his own final year. He doesn’t want to read the expression on Wood’s face when he shows up in September, because they’re very good at getting into each other’s heads, and Merlin only knows what another nine months cooped up in the castle will bring around them.

Because he still dreams about Wood, still wakes up panting and wanting the familiar warmth of Wood’s body curled against his, misses the familiar zing of magic when their hands touch, passing a quaffle back and forth. When his rut hits, early in the summer months, it’s Oliver’s scent that fills his hazy mind and has him burying his face against his pillow, gritting his teeth against calling out Oliver’s name.

Once the rut passes, Marcus has another reason to keep the shades closed, avoiding looking out across the field at the Wood’s much humbler household.

And then the owls start.

They’re all the same – one liner in messy blocky script, asking _Quidditch?_

Marcus reads the first one at the breakfast table, and promptly drops the parchment into his porridge.

“Darling,” his mother sniffs reproachfully, as Marcus doesn’t make a move to fish the letter out.

Marcus shakes his head. “Sorry.”

He vanishes the letter with a wave of his wand – one of the only charms that he’s able to grasp easily – and chugs some pumpkin juice to get the sudden bitter bile taste out of his mouth.

They keep coming, one every day for a good two weeks. All with just one word and a question mark, and Marcus doesn’t know whether he should laugh at the absurdity or fall into the pit of anger rising in his chest, bubbling resolutely with every letter.

Oliver mother-fucking _Wood_.

The letters finally stop towards the end of July, and Marcus feels a slow unfurling of relief when no familiar looking owl doesn’t soar in at breakfast that day. A temporary relief, because then he starts wondering whether he should’ve at least responded once, if even to say no. It’d been nice, playing the one being pursued, having some semblance of power of his emotions for once in his goddamn life.

Still, he doesn’t miss the constant bombardment of parchment into his food.

The weekend passes. Then a Monday, and then on Tuesday, the doorbell rings an hour after his parents leave for some brunch time gala. Marcus opens the door and immediately regrets it.

“You’re bloody insane.”

Standing on his front step is Oliver, looking grim and determined and smelling like stupid fucking broom polish and strawberries. He has his broom in hand, and a Quaffle balanced on his hip and is looking at Marcus as if nothing is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong.

“If you’re going to keep being captain next year, we should keep practicing.”

Marcus stares at Oliver, just stares for a good long minute. Wood doesn’t falter.

“So – you coming out or not?”

Marcus splutters, pulse rising and honestly. _Honestly_. Wood should be the goddamn fucking Alpha. Their whole assigned roles are just a cruel joke.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Marcus asks incredulously, swinging the door wide open and glaring at the daringness of Wood’s presence. “You – really? You’re doing this?”

“It’s Quidditch, and I heard about the fact that you’re going back to school for another year, and neither of us have professional contracts yet so,” Oliver says all in one breath, glossing over the fact that they have _history_. “So – we should practice.”

Marcus just stares, and stares, and stares some more until Oliver deflates slightly. The vulnerability peeks out, just a tiny bit. Enough for Marcus to realize that maybe Wood hadn’t come over in merely a Quidditch fueled frenzy.

Oliver resettles the quaffle against his hip. “And maybe – I wanted to see you.”

“ _Right_.”

“I did,” Oliver argues, fingers shifting against the handle of his broom, “We haven’t talked in – what? Three months, Flint.”

“For good reason,” Marcus sneers. It makes Oliver flinch, something basely gratifying. “One – there’s nothing to talk about. Two - I had to fucking study so—”

“Didn’t think you were doing much of that,” Oliver says, before biting his bottom lip.

Marcus glare turns a little murderous. “— _So_ if you thought I was going to _chase after you_ and beg for you back like some stupid, pathetic sod then you’re fucking delusional.”

“I didn’t want that,” Oliver mumbles, looking a little stricken, as if this conversation isn’t going the way that he’d planned it out. He’d probably drawn up game plans for this, Marcus thinks a little hysterically. Had lines ready to dole out and different approaches to tackle the situation.

Marcus huffs, stepping out onto the front porch so the house-elves peeking out from the hallway don’t get to witness their fight. “If you’d wanted to talk, you could’ve made more of an effort to.”

“You _ran_ the last time I tried!”

“Because!” Marcus lashes out, impulse coursing through his body and he’s reaching out and shoving Wood back by the shoulders, “I was trying to get over you, you fucking idiot.”

Wood stands his ground, “Don’t. Marcus, please—”

Oliver drops the quaffle with a solid thunk, his broom collapsing to his side a split second after, and then he’s grabbing at Marcus’ shirt with a callused fist. “I’m here now. I swear, I wanted to see you.”

“Did a fair job avoiding me at the end of the year.” Marcus tosses back, gripping Wood’s forearms.

He’s holding them apart for a reason he’s unsure of – to keep Wood away or to keep himself from falling forward into Oliver’s available body. It’d be so easy. It’s always too easy. He doesn’t have self-control when he’s around Wood, can never quite pull himself out of the orbit of the sun that is Oliver’s presence.

Oliver’s face flushes, jaw set, veering just a little closer. “Was getting my courage up, okay? And – watching you leave _sucked_. And half of me didn’t even know if it would’ve been smart for me.”

“There it is again,” Marcus grunts, and they wrestle for a bit before holding each other at a standstill against the wall of the front of his house, panting and pissed. “So goddamn fucking flighty.”

“Shut up,” Oliver says, “Merlin, I’m trying – get over yourself, Flint –”

 “Fuck you,” Marcus spits, their faces so close now their noses are almost touching, “Fuck you – make up your fucking _mind_.”

“I’m trying to, I’m trying, fuck’s sake, Marcus, _help me_.” Wood pleads, and then he’s surging forward to press his mouth harshly against Marcus’, a wounded noise tearing from his throat that thrums deep in Marcus’ chest.

Marcus loses control the moment their lips touch.

He kisses Wood back hard, fists his hands in the collar of Oliver’s shirt and there’s that building anger in his chest again, the desire to mark, to take. He thinks Oliver must know now, at least, who’s the ugly one, the selfish one, out of the two of them. He’s scraping his teeth over Wood’s bottom lip, hurting Oliver for certain, but he can’t kiss anything but brutally right now, can’t try and diffuse any of the hurt in any other direction.

Oliver gives as good as he takes, though. He’s pushing himself close, until the tables turn and he’s the one boxing Marcus in against the wall, the one with his back to the rest of the world. Their mouths don’t leave one another for longer than a millisecond; fighting or kissing, Marcus isn’t quite sure anymore.

“Shut up,” Oliver hisses, hand trembling where it’s tugging at Marcus’ sweaty tee, “I’m a mess, okay? I’m a mess. I can’t figure it out.”

He grabs Marcus’ hands, brings them underneath his own polish-streaked shirt and makes Marcus touch him. Marcus exhales sharply through his nose.

“Help me figure it out.”

“I can’t help you,” Marcus argues, though he’s touching, greedy, mapping out every inch of Oliver’s hard stomach.

“I’m still in love with you,” Oliver ignores him, “I know that makes me a piece of shit but –”

“Shut up,” Marcus says, “Shut up, shut up, shut _up_.”

And he surges forward to cover Wood’s mouth with his own, because that’s the only way, really, to ever make Oliver shut up nowadays. Sometimes he wonders if Wood does it on purpose.

They fuck.

It’s the only way Marcus can define it, because so much of it is rough and tugging at each other’s limbs. It’s too raw to be tender, and too tender to be harsh. It’s a stupid fumbling first time for both of them, but their bodies are made for this, aren’t they? Young and hormonal and running on the leftover empty fumes of their emotions.

He’d dragged Oliver into the manor, fumbled their way up the stairs, and ended up on his bed, half-undressed and lips locked together. He can’t remember how it’d happened, just that there’d been hands all over his skin and it’d felt like his body was humming, and then Oliver had been gasping underneath him and he’d rested his head against the sweaty skin of Oliver’s back and lost himself.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Oliver says after they catch their breath, the sheets tangled up between them, Marcus’ forehead still resting against the muscle of Wood’s back.

“You kissed someone else,” Marcus responds.

Oliver shifts in his grasp. “I know.”

“It didn’t feel right,” he continues, bracing himself up on his elbows and turning so Marcus can see his face, tanned and freckled and devastatingly guilty.

“Why did you?”

“I wanted to know, I guess. Whether or not being mates was…inevitable.” Oliver closes his eyes, sighs into his confession, “But nothing felt right.”

Marcus lets his head fall back against his pillow.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says again.

“Do you expect me to forgive you?”

“No,” Oliver says, and Marcus can tell it’s honest in the way Oliver doesn’t avert his gaze, how the guilt still hangs heavy like a forest fire in their respective scents. “I just want you to know.”

“Okay.”

Oliver nods, brings his hand up to play with Marcus’ fingers. It’s too intimate for two people who’ve spent the past couple of months at complete odds with one another, but it’s so much of what Marcus wants that he can’t bear to hold onto the anger anymore.

“Did this help you figure it out?” Marcus asks, unable to draw himself away from Oliver’s body for longer than a second because the pheromones are making him go a bit hazy, inner Alpha soothed for the time being. It deserves asking, though – do they start over? Are they back together? Or do they have to do the whole dance over again?

“I think so.”

“I don’t have it in me to play guessing games, Wood.”

“I always want you,” Wood clarifies, and Marcus inhales at the memory, “And I want to always want you. If that’s what you want.”

Marcus holds his tongue, wary of such a neat resolution.

“I mean it,” Oliver promises, tipping his head back in a classic Omega gesture of submission that makes Marcus wonder if he’d practiced it. Somehow, the idea makes Marcus’ stomach turn. “But it’s okay if you don’t want it anymore. I’d – I’d understand.”

It’s a role-reversal of their breakup, but Marcus isn’t cruel, and he can’t stand to watch Wood   present himself in submissive Omega fashion for longer than another second, so he presses his lips against the side of Oliver’s cheek in acceptance.

“Don’t be stupid,” Marcus nudges Oliver’s chin back down so the length of his neck isn’t exposed anymore, “I do want this.”

Oliver brightens, then falters in his joy. “You’re sure?”

“Shush,” Marcus says, tugging Oliver closer so their heads are on one pillow.

He scrapes his teeth over Oliver’s Omega mark, can feel Wood’s pulse beating strongly under the skin. He drags his mouth over the spot again, rolling his hips languidly against Oliver’s upper thigh to get a hitched breath out of his bed partner.

“Do it,” Wood mumbles, so softly Marcus almost doesn’t catch it.

“Hm?”

Oliver swallows. “Go on. You can mark me.”

Wood’s nerves are so palpable in his heartbeat that it makes Marcus sad, that Oliver’s not ready for this at all, but wants to make amends so badly he’d rather relinquish his own agency to give what he thinks Marcus wants.

He rolls off of Oliver, and looks at him. Really looks, and he knows that this isn’t it. Not for them.

Oliver stares back when Marcus doesn’t move.

“Oh,” he says after a moment, and for once in his life, Wood doesn’t argue back.

“I really did lose you, didn’t I.” Oliver says. It’s not a question, just an acknowledgement of his wrong.  

“I’m going to be better,” he continues earnestly, tentatively, leaning over to press a kiss against the side of Marcus’ mouth, “I’m working on getting to a place where – I’m so sorry. I’ll be better.”

“It’s alright,” Marcus says, not completely sure if he means the lack of marking or Oliver’s apology, but he means it.

***

“Oh,” Oliver says one day as they’re replacing the laces of their Quidditch boots, “What about Selwyn?”

“Talks fell out long time ago. Heard I failed my NEWTS and didn’t like that.” Marcus’ face heats - he’s thankful they dropped the potential match, but it’s still embarrassing, failing to the point of needing to repeat a year. He’s just another thick-headed Alpha.

“Oh,” Oliver says, then frowns, placing his old boot to the side. “That’s rude. You would’ve been a great Alpha.”

Marcus shakes his head. “Not really.”

“You were – you’re a good Alpha to me.”

“Made you angry and sad a hell of a lot.”

Oliver looks at him for a long while, then drops back down onto the grass with a soft noise. He stares at the setting sky, arms folded over his stomach and fingers laced together. “That wasn’t you. Not always. Not even most of the time, honestly.”

Marcus continues working at the scrape to the side of his boot, buffs and buffs until the jagged leather smooths out. “Still. I’m not much.”

“Don’t say that,” Oliver says sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“The reason we didn’t work out the first time was because of _me_. I thought that was pretty clear.” Oliver says, propping himself up, point of his elbow digging into the dirt underneath them. “And I’ve always looked up to you. Just because the Selwyns, or your parents, or – or, I dunno, Snape, looks down on you because of some stupid NEWTs doesn’t mean anything important.”

“You looked up to me?” Marcus says, picking up on only that amidst Oliver’s tirade.

Oliver flushes darkly, flopping back down and covering his eyes with a tanned arm. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re a good flyer, and your team respects you without you even trying, even if they like to pretend they don’t.”

Marcus tugs the arm away, only to get Oliver averting his gaze. He’s smirking now, unused to having the emotional upper-hand, so to speak, but he’s not going to shy away from making Wood squirm. “Do continue.”

“Shut it,” Oliver rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, lord it over me now.”

“Hey,” Marcus says, dropping his boot and leaning over Wood’s chest, “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” Oliver says. The rare summer breeze carries the scent of sandalwood and polish over to Marcus’ nose, mixed in with the earnest affection permeating from Wood.

He digs his fingers into Oliver’s ribs, forcing Oliver to unleash a hack of laughter, and a sudden onslaught of name calling at Marcus’ tickling. Oliver manages to escape from Marcus’ grasp, scrambling onto his two feet and standing a distance away, guarding his torso.

Oliver sticks out his tongue. “I’m _trying_ to be a better boyfriend.”

“Sure,” Marcus laughs, and wrestles Oliver back down to the ground.

***

“Maybe we should set some ground rules,” Marcus suggests, and Oliver is relaxed and agreeable amongst the sheets. Marcus’ sheets, because his parents are on their annual trip to somewhere in Greece. When he was younger, that meant he was under the care of their house-elves. Now, age gives him some semblance of freedom.

“Okay,” Oliver hums, “What were you thinking?”

“You tell me when you’re angry, or hurting, or – anything. And why. Please.” Marcus says, pressing his thumb into the jut of Oliver’s hip. It makes Oliver stretch lazily in the late August heat, all corded muscle and sun-kissed skin. “Even if you’re mad at me. Particularly when you’re mad at me.”

“Alright.” Oliver hooks one of his legs over Marcus’ hips, drapes himself over Marcus’ bare body and Marcus fights down the urge to press Oliver down and go another round. That’s how they’ve spent their days recently – Quidditch, dissecting games and plays, and then sex.

“Do you have anything you want me to do?”

Oliver chews his bottom lip, eyes roving over Marcus’ face. “Don’t leave me alone for my heats.”

Marcus’ heart thunders, guilt welling up like a torrent of summer rain. “I never – I didn’t mean to—”

Oliver presses his nose into the flesh of Marcus’ wrist. “I know you thought you were being respectful – and I guess you were – but it’s havoc on my system. And I would really prefer not spending another one alone.”

Marcus relaxes. “And – the hating ‘needing’ me?”

“I dunno,” Oliver muses, hands moving to rest behind his head, “Maybe it’ll be okay to need someone from time to time. And if my body is yelling that it needs you, well. It’d probably be smart to have you around, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t think heats are ever anything you end up enjoying,” Oliver wrinkles his nose, and Marcus snorts at the expression he makes, “But I can get used to it.”

It’s the easiest conversation they’ve ever had about this. Maybe it's the hormones. Maybe it's summer. They’ve always been better over the summer.

“Kiss me.” Oliver commands after they spend moments just staring at one another, and Marcus obliges.

***

His mother eyes Wood warily when they reach Platform 9 ¾. Neither she nor Marcus’ father have said anything, though what had reignited between Marcus and Oliver had been obvious to both their families. Mrs. Wood had, in fact, been keeping a particularly close eye on Oliver’s neck whenever they’d returned from practicing out in the field.

“Marcus, darling,” his mother says, still fixated on Mrs. Wood smoothing down Oliver’s hair a dozen meters away, “Do keep yourself to the standard of the family for the next year.”

“I’ll study more,” Marcus grumbles, and that’s that.

***

They spend the majority of their last year at Hogwarts talking about Quidditch. Quidditch doesn’t have to be a metaphor for anything else anymore – it’s not a come-uppance or an inheritance, nor an argument waiting to burst at the seams. Quidditch just is.

And yeah – they’d had a rousing series of fights in November, with the whole switch-off with Hufflepuff and the dementors and the goddamn _Firebolt_ afterwards – Marcus still insists that it isn’t _fair_ , but Oliver always coughs out something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _Nimbuses’_ and so he has to let it go – but overall, they’ve been fine. They’ve been good. Great, even, if Marcus is willing to go out on a limb and say so.

Oliver tosses aside the sugar quill he’d been sucking on, sticky and down to its last three centimeters. It’s the night before their last game. There will be Puddlemere scouts in the stands, and Oliver is antsy but he’s grinning at the prospect of winning, and the blood and sweat that will inevitably be shed tomorrow.

He’s made a point of telling Marcus that he’s setting the Weasley twins loose and to expect a broken nose tomorrow. Marcus rolls his eyes. It’s no different than usual, then.

“You’re not going to win,” Marcus goads him on, “I won’t let you.”

“You’ve never _let_ me win, I just do.” Oliver taunts back, and Marcus chucks his Charms book at Oliver. It misses and slides to a halt on the courtyard ground.

Oliver laughs. “Pince is going to have your head.”

Marcus shrugs. “We’re leaving, anyways.”

He ducks in to catch Wood’s mouth with his own. Oliver tastes sweet and sticky from his candy, and Marcus can’t get enough, tugging his boyfriend up against him. Oliver huffs a laugh against his lips, but aligns his body so his chest is pressed against Marcus’ torso.

“Merlin, we’re so close,” Oliver says wistfully, “To playing in the big leagues.”

“You sure about Puddlemere?”

“Well, they’re the only team that would give me the time of day,” Oliver says, and his jaw tightens slightly, “But they’re a fair team.”

“They are.”

“You two are disgusting,” Montague’s voice interrupts, strolling towards them with Warrington in tow. “Flint, c’mon. We need to go over the thing.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow, detaching himself from Marcus’ arms. “What thing?”

“Quidditch thing,” Warrington says shortly, “So no way we’re telling you.”

Oliver looks unimpressed but waves Marcus away, assuming that Marcus knows what his two housemates are talking about. Except Marcus had already drilled the plays they’d be following in the game tomorrow a satisfying amount into their thick skulls, so he’s just as confused as Oliver.  

“What the hell are you cock-blocking for? What Quidditch thing?” Marcus elbows Montague in the ribs as they drag him back into the castle.

Warrington frowns. “Had to think of something. Your father’s here looking for you.”

Marcus trips to a standstill in the middle of the corridor. “What?”

“You didn't know he was coming?” Graham asks, raising a thin eyebrow. “That’s no good.”

Marcus shakes his head. “No. No, why the hell is he here?”

“Dunno,” Warrington grumbles, “That’s a family thing, isn’t it?”

Marcus blinks rapidly, trying to focus. His senses have been dulled recently, with only himself to blame – too much time spent basking in the pheromones of Wood’s scent have left him hazy headed and a little too punch-drunk. He inhales deeply.

Alright. His father’s here. Three scenarios, really: one, he’s on the verge of failing again; two, he’s got a ministry job after all, or three – something to do with mates.

He’s so shaken he can’t even decide what he would place money on.

“Good luck,” Montague mutters, patting him on the back with a harsh clap and Marcus focuses on the handle of the door to the hospital wing.  It’s not what he was expecting, but it immediately eliminates two of his scenarios.

His father is holding a slip of parchment with a disdainful look painted across his normally cold face. He turns the same expression onto Marcus when he draws closer.

“Father,” Marcus says in acknowledgement, “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t your mother specifically tell you to think about the _standard_ of our family?” His father’s intonation, a cool sharp disappointment, hits Marcus right in the gut.

“What is this about?”

“Your chosen _mate_ ,” his father says harshly, “The Wood’s son. You told us yourself it was nothing serious – so how come the Woods dropped by today to discuss the _matter_ with us, of how you two are intent on sticking together for the rest of your lives?”

“And then I come here, because _clearly_ this is a mistake, my son wouldn't be so stupid as to imprint on a son of no familial worth to us, would he? Only for this – this connection to have been made a whole year back.”

Marcus wilts underneath the weight of his father’s anger and disappointment, shoulders shrugging up and wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Out of his peripheral, Madame Pomfrey wrinkles her nose, mouth pursed. Marcus closes his eyes. Pomfrey had always been kind to Oliver about the whole situation, had never asked too many questions when they both came in with cuts and scrapes from fights. Had never ratted them out to their heads of houses if she didn’t need to.

_It looks like a healthy attachment_ , Pomfrey had said, so many months ago, and at Oliver’s most recent heat, she’d reiterated her diagnostic. _It’s leveled off, Mr. Flint, and still quite solid._

Marcus exhales slowly, bolstering himself back up. “I am that stupid, I suppose.”

“Well,” his father sighs, “Well, now we’ve got to deal with this, haven’t we?”

“Not really,” Marcus argues, “I’ve got a mate. You wanted me to get a mate early on, right? And I’ve got one.”

“You’re missing the point, Marcus. What _use_ is he of to us? What value is there in him being attached to the Flint name?”

“He makes me happy, and I love him,” Marcus says, incredulous that he even needs to explain this, “Doesn’t that count for something?”

His father looks at him as if he’s lost his mind, daft and completely devoid of reason. “What does love have to do with anything, Marcus?”

“Do you not love Mother?” Marcus asks instead of answering, because his answer would be that it means everything, it means everything that Oliver fucking Wood, the pseudo-Alpha next door, had chosen Marcus and loves him.

“I’ve learned to,” his father responds, as if that’s how all people love someone. He shakes his head, as if clearing the cobwebs away. “Alright. Fine. Fine. You say you _love_ this boy. Then why haven’t you marked him yet?”

“Maybe I don’t need to,” Marcus replies.

His father’s eyebrows rise higher on his forehead. “Oh, please. All Alphas need to mark their mates. Otherwise they’d run off.”

“That’s not true,” Marcus cringes, “And Oliver – he won’t.”

“He’s run off once before, hasn’t he?” His father asks, triumphant, and Marcus loses his breath. How his father had known is beyond him, but Marcus guesses that pure-blood circles talk, and gossip, and talk some more.

Marcus shakes his head. “We – we sorted it out. And he’s not ready to be marked, and I don’t want to mark him.”

“Sounds _secure_ ,” his father sneers, “The boy’s flighty, Marcus. You’re going to ruin your future like this. Even if he’s able to get you into the League, do you want to set yourself up as an Alpha who can’t even hold down a mate?”

His blood runs cold at the idea, the lingering worry flaring up. His father has always known how to pinpoint where his wall is weakest, can chip away at it until it collapses without a backwards glance.

“Marcus, be reasonable.”

He stares at his father’s shoes, polished and gleaming in their newness. His family has always wanted shiny, always wanted the role for none of the work. None of the hard work, as it is. They’d worked hard once before, to get the Alpha instilled in their bloodline, so as to ensure a comfortable amount of control for all the years onward.

There’s no risk in their bloodline.

But Marcus has always enjoyed the risk – befriending Oliver, learning from the house-elves, played Quidditch on the edge of too self-destructive because it was the only time he didn’t know what was going to happen.

And Oliver – Oliver is Quidditch and love and risk all rolled up into one.

“You’re right,” Marcus says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “It’s not secure. But I’m not going to mark him. If we don’t last, we don’t. But he’s too much of a good thing for me to agree to breaking our bond up.”

His father stares at him, and it’s only then that Marcus realizes they’re the same height now. No more being glared at down the length of his father’s nose, no more hunching over at the dinner table. He stands up straight, and shrugs in lieu of saying anything else.

“I don’t understand you,” his father says gruffly. “This is a horrible idea.”

“I’ve had a lot of those,” Marcus reminds his father. “I’ll see you during summer. You can tell Mother I’m sorry, though I don’t think I am.”

His father doesn’t say another word, which Marcus takes as the end of their disagreement, and so he turns and leaves. He’s sure his father wants what’s best for him, deep down, but Marcus can figure that out for himself from now on.

Oliver’s sitting with Montague and Warrington when Marcus returns to the courtyard, and he almost laughs at the tableau they form. Their discomfort is palpable across the way, and Marcus takes his sweet time meandering to where they are.

“So,” he overhears Warrington offer, “Uh – gobstones?”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Oliver says, waving Marcus over, “He’s back to put us out of our misery.”

Montague and Warrington’s twin expressions of relief are comical. They excuse themselves with a curt nod to Wood, and a punch each to Marcus’ shoulder, leaving Oliver and him alone in their corner of the courtyard. Some second years are peering over at them, but Marcus only has eyes for Oliver.

“What was it about?” Oliver asks, concern vibrating out of him at a frequency that even Marcus is unused to. “Obviously it wasn’t Quidditch, because these lugs came back, and they said something about your da.”

“Typical,” Marcus sighs, “They can’t keep up a lie for ten minutes.”

“Is everything alright?” Oliver tugs Marcus down to sit next to him, “Is it – is it about mates?”

Marcus nods. Oliver exhales lowly.

“Okay,” Oliver takes another deep breath, “He wants us to stop?”

Marcus nods again.

“Damnit. How did he-?”

“Your parents.”

Oliver curses loudly again. “Alright. Alright, then that means you have to mark me.”

Marcus blinks at the whiplash. “What? No, no, it’s okay. I talked to him. He’ll deal with it.”

Oliver doesn’t look convinced, pulling at the base of his tie until it no longer sits flat against his collar. Marcus recognizes the discomfort, the sharp scent of agitation, and reaches out for one of Oliver’s fidgeting hands.

Oliver doesn’t bother hiding the fact that his fingers are trembling. “I just – I pushed you away once, alright? And I barely managed to get you back, and now –I really don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Marcus says, and as much as he can think towards the future, he means it. “And you said so yourself, you don’t want to be marked. Right?”

Oliver goes back to fiddling with his tie. “Well – no. But if it shuts up your father then, well. I’d be willing to.”

“Great,” Marcus says sarcastically, “That’s exactly what any Alpha wants to hear. C’mon, Wood, I’ve told you before – I’m happy like this.”

“I’m happy too,” Oliver agrees, lacing his fingers through Marcus’ even though the giggling of second years makes them both a little self-conscious, “So – you’re sure it’s fine?”

Marcus ducks in to kiss him in lieu of an answer. The giggling escalates behind them, much to Marcus’ annoyance, because Oliver pulls away far too quick for his liking.

He buries his face into Wood’s hair anyways, allowing himself to sink comfortably into the familiar scent of strawberries and the Quidditch pitch. It’s a comfort he never wants to lose.

“Sap,” Oliver tuts, rapping him on the forehead with his knuckles when Marcus finally detangles himself. He doesn’t move away though, a welcoming warmth against Marcus’ left side.

“C’mon,” Marcus pulls him up after a moment, “Race you to dinner. And then you can go freak out at your team for doing risky shit before our final.”

Wood rolls his eyes, but grins all the same. Marcus watches him jog easily back towards the castle before taking off himself, a couple paces behind.

It’ll be a good game tomorrow. He’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all! thank you so so much if you've been following along for the whole of this project - i know updates have been few and far in between, but I'm super happy to have wrapped this up and the boys have their happy healthy ending :')


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